Previously on Call the Midwife
by writergal85
Summary: A series of one-shots, involving various characters (but mostly Turnadette). Originally posted on my blog, now moved here.
1. Bold

"Well, that was…a rather bold move."

She giggled, remembering their conversation earlier in the week. "Are you all right?"

"Uh-huh. You?"

She turned her head on the pillow and gazed at him, taking him in: flushed, breathless, hair mussed from her fingers, and grinning from ear to ear. They hadn't even bothered to completely undress this time; his shirt still hung on his shoulders and her slip was pushed at an odd angle up around her waist.

Slowly, she smiled back at him, grasped his hand at her side and brought it to her lips, kissing his palm.

"Perfectly."

The evening had started like any other: dinner, followed by Patrick coaching Timothy through the rest of his math homework, while she finished the washing up. Then Timothy had his bath and went to bed (of course after protesting to stay up "just five more minutes" at least twice) and she and Patrick settled into their comfortable nightly routine. She might sew or go over some new sheet music for the choir, while he read and polished Timothy's braces. They talked about their days – Patrick's worries over a patient, her struggles with the still tiny choir, the latest gossip from Nonnatus house – until one of them yawned or remembered to look at the clock, realized the late hour and decided to go to bed.

Only tonight, Shelagh didn't feel tired – not at all. As much as she tried to concentrate on the sheet music in her lap, the melody in her head kept turning into the sound of his voice, whispering in her ear, and her eyes wandered to her husband, his dark head bent over a book. He was sitting right next to her – mere inches between them – but apart from a kiss on the cheek when he'd come home, he hadn't touched her all night.

He'd always been careful not to push her, but even more so since the operation. She was grateful for it at first. They'd both needed their time to grieve and to heal and look for new roads to happiness.

But lately all she wanted was to be close, as close as possible to the man she loved. This man, with his caring hands and warm kisses; this man, who could look at her and make her knees go so weak with love and want, it was amazing to Shelagh sometimes how she made it through days at the office without pulling him into a corner and showing him exactly how she felt.

She'd kissed him, the other day, quite boldly and unexpectedly, as they were leaving the clinic. There was no one else around, but showing affection in public, beyond sidelong smiles and winks, wasn't something they did very often. Shelagh didn't really know what had come over her – she'd just had to kiss him at that moment. But Patrick hadn't seemed to mind, kissing her back and keeping her hand in his as they walked home.

But once home, of course, life got in the way. There was dinner and chores and Patrick got late call out to help deliver a set of triplets. He hadn't come to bed until nearly dawn. And he'd been exhausted yesterday, of course, from the lack of sleep.

But tonight? Tonight he must have read that same page in his book at least three times by now.

She set aside her music. "Patrick."

He looked up at the sound of his name, a slight, lopsided grin on his face.

She moved closer, placing a hand on his knee. "It's rather late. I think I'll go to bed."

"All right, love." He leaned in and kissed her softly, as he'd taken to doing of late – gently, never demanding always holding himself in check. She rested her other hand on the back of his neck, and when the kiss ended she left it there, fingertips curling into his hair.

"Come with me?" she asked, bold and shy, and watched his eyes widen with a mix of surprise and desire. It had been a while since they'd done this, and she'd never asked before. So of course he paused. Of course, he waited for her to take the lead.

Well then…she would.


	2. Whatever Happened to Jane? (A Crackfic)

_**Whatever happened to**_ _ **Baby**_ _ **Jane?:**_ _A_ _CtM_ _crackfic._

No one saw it coming. Even Sister Julienne admitted she'd failed to notice the signs. After all, between Chummy's brush with death and the new baby, and then Sister Bernadette's exit from the Order to marry the doctor (The doctor? And _the nun_? Poplar would whisper about it for months), everyone had been rather distracted. And while no one wanted to admit it, they'd forgotten about Jane.

Until one morning there was an extra empty chair at breakfast.

"Where's Jane?" Jenny asked. "Is she out on a call?"

Cynthia frowned. "No. I knocked on her door, but there was no answer."

"Perhaps she had one too many Babychams last night and is sleeping it off," Trixie said, giggling. Everyone knew Jane never drank, or smoked or danced or even spoke too loudly. She was practically a nun, except for her well-known devotion to the Reverend Appleby-Thornton and his letters. But all they ever did was play chess by post, so no one thought much of it.

Sister Julienne glided into the dining room with a look of utter shock on her face.

"What is it?" Sister Evangelina said, sighing. "Have we got another call about this one's sticky fingers?" She nodded toward Sister Monica Joan.

"I have not pilfered items for some time," she said, between sips of tea. "Except for cake, and that is nothing but what is due to me."

"I regret to say that Jane has left us." Sister Julienne held out a folded piece of paper. "I found this under my door this morning. It appears she has eloped — with the Reverend Appleby-Thornton."

A stunned silence settled over the table.

"Why — Why didn't she tell anyone?" Jenny asked.

"She writes she is sorry she didn't tell us, but she wanted to keep things quiet," Sister Julienne said.

"Well, good for her," Trixie said coolly.

"I think it's lovely," Cynthia said.

Sister Evangelina set her teacup down hard on the table, rattling the plates and cutlery.

"Young girls these days have no sense of duty and commitment to their work. Gallivanting off to the ends of the earth, their heads turned by a wink and a smile. It's absolutely —"

"Sister." Sister Julienne cut her off with a stern look. "I'm sure Jane did not mean to cause us any worry. And a marriage also requires commitment."

"But to run off in the middle of the night?" Cynthia said. "Did no one hear anything?"

"I confess, I did suspect something," Chummy said, speaking up for the first time. "I was up with Freddy and saw her leave, but I thought she was just headed out on a call."

"She had been getting a lot of letters lately," Jenny said.

"Love letters," said Chummy. "From her Casanova."

The nurses dissolved into a fit of giggles. Sister Evangelina let out a grumbling sigh and rose to her feet. She glared at the row of nurses, her face thunderous, and the laughter stopped.

"We've got clinic today — with _Dr._ Casanova — and I expect all of you early. Unless any of you have plans to run off with the postman?" She stomped off.

The nurses looked at each other, mouths agape.

"Dr. Casanova? In those jumpers?" Trixie said, barely suppressing a laugh.

"I fear Sister Evangelina is still a little sensitive about Sister— I mean, Shelagh's departure," Sister Julienne said. "It might be best if you kept any men away from Nonnatus House for a while."

"Oh dear," said Chummy. "Peter will have to sleep at the station." The nurses laughed.

"I shall write to Jane at the address she left and give her our congratulations," Sister Julienne said, smiling. "She says they will settle not far from the Mother House and we are welcome to visit whenever we are in Chichester."

The nurses all smiled and agreed that a trip to visit Jane would be a splendid idea, but they knew it would never happen. No one ever went to Chichester.


	3. The Dance Lesson

Patrick Turner had gotten used to coming home to silence. In the year and a half since Margaret passed, entering the house after a long day had come to feel like entering a tomb. It was cold, dark and quiet. Desperate to fill the emptiness, he'd switch on all the lights and play records while he ate his warmed-over dinner left by the housekeeper. If Timothy was still up, he'd ask him about his day and his son's inquisitive chatter would help for a while.

But he couldn't banish the silence completely, and after Tim went to bed, he was left alone again. He developed a habit of burying himself in paperwork, working late into the night to tire himself out enough for sleep.

When Shelagh came into their lives, he realized that this all could be different. Better. It was possible, one day.

But the day he knew everything had changed for certain was the day he opened the door at 24 Bermondsey Lane and there was…life. The lights were on in the sitting room, a warm, delicious smell emanated from the kitchen and there was music playing, while a clear, soft voice sang along.

 _Watch the sunrise from a tropic isle…Just remember darling, all the while, you belong to me._

Warmth filled his chest and he smiled. Shelagh. He knew she'd be here – she and Tim had made plans yesterday for her to come and spend some time with him after school. But he'd expected to find her reading in the sitting room or at the table with Tim – not standing in his kitchen, cooking and singing along to the wireless.

She caught him staring in the doorway and blushed crimson. His grin widened. "Don't stop, it's lovely."

She giggled shyly. "Tim showed me how to switch on the wireless."

He took in the meal laid on out the cooker – chops, peas, roast potatoes – and his stomach rumbled.

"You didn't have to do all this." Though Patrick had definite plans for asking her to marry him – he'd stopped by the jewelers yesterday – they were still courting, and he wanted to treat her as such. He'd planned on taking her out for a meal that evening. Tim would be fine left by himself for a few hours after a fish and chips supper.

"I wanted to," she said, twisting the one of the oven gloves in her hands. "You don't mind, do you? And I thought Timothy would appreciate it."

"Oh he will – especially after my cooking." He looked through the kitchen hatch into the empty sitting room. "Where is Timothy?"

"Out. He'd finished his homework, so I said he could play until tea." She frowned, a worried crease reappearing between her eyebrows. "That's all right, isn't it?"

"Perfectly." He'd planned on spending the evening showing Shelagh how much he loved her, and instead, she'd done all of this for him. It made him love her even more. "Thank you." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

She smiled again. "Are you hungry? Should we call him in?"

"Not just yet." He pulled her closer to him, placing the hand he held on his shoulder and winding his other arm around her back.

"Patrick!" she gasped. "I don't know how to dance."

"Really?" He gently took her other hand in his, wrapping his fingers around her palm. "Well, then it's time you learned."

He could feel her nerves as she stumbled, unsure and a little stiff in his arms, and they moved awkwardly side-to-side for a few moments. He'd never held her this close before without kissing her and he knew if she looked up at him instead of at his waistcoat, he probably would…not that kissing would spoil anything.

Another song played and he began to sing along, hoping she wouldn't roll her eyes as Timothy so often did.

 _Why must I meet you in a secret rendezvous? Why must we steal away to steal a kiss or two?_

She giggled. "Forgive me, Patrick, but you can't sing."

He chuckled. "Everyone's a critic. Fine. You sing, I'll dance, we'll muddle through together."

His fingers splayed across her back and he felt her relax and lean into him, her movements a little surer and easier now.

 _Wish we didn't have to meet secretly, Wish we didn't have to kiss secretly…._

The song ended all too quickly in his opinion and an announcer came on to read the news and advertisements. Still, they stood, swaying gently now, not really dancing at all, just holding each other in the middle of the kitchen.

"That was lovely," she whispered, finally looking up at him.

" _You_ are lovely," he said, dipping his head to kiss her softly. "In fact, I think we should make this dance lesson a regular occurrence. What do you say?"

She wrapped both arms around his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. "Oh, I think I definitely need more lessons."


	4. Little Angel

_**Author's note: Others have written their take on how Angela Turner got her name. Here is mine. Also there's dancing...because if I had my way there would always be dancing.**_

 _"…'til we meet again."_

The song ended and the record spun to a stop, but they remained, entwined and swaying, in the middle of the sitting room.

Shelagh broke the silence first. "Patrick, since we got the letter from the adoption agency – well, when we do meet our baby – " her smile broadened and her cheeks pinked at the words – "Have you thought at all about names?"

He hadn't. The last few days his thoughts, when not at work, had been about his argument with Shelagh, their reconciliation and their resolution to talk – always to talk – about the things that worried them. They'd spent far too long in silence.

"I haven't actually." Our baby. They were going to be parents again. The wonder of it stilled his movements and he pulled his wife closer. "It doesn't seem real yet."

"I know," she said, shivering in delight. "Before, when we –" her gaze dropped momentarily. Thinking of those months past in the hospital would always bring her some pain. But without it, the blessings of the present wouldn't be as sweet. She met Patrick's eyes again and continued. "Then, I had thought about a few options. James, for a boy. Celia or maybe Emily for a girl." She frowned. "But none of those seem to fit now."

"If Tim had been a girl, Margaret wanted to call him Janet. And for a boy we'd settled on Douglas." Shelagh wrinkled his nose in distaste and he chuckled. "I know. But then when he arrived, he just didn't seem like anything but a Timothy."

As they did another turn on the carpet, he glanced toward the hallway that led to his son's bedroom. Eleven years ago and it felt like yesterday sometimes. Then he'd look in the mirror at the grey threads in his hair and the laugh lines on his face and wonder where the time had gone.

"Sometimes, these things just settle themselves," he said, with a sigh. "Anyway, we've probably got weeks yet to decide. So start making a list." He twirled her spontaneously and she giggled.

"All right," she said, returning to rest her hand on his shoulder. "But not Douglas."

* * *

They stood in the middle of the nursery, swaying ever so slightly, to a tune only the three of them could hear.

"We have a daughter," she whispered in wonder and he grinned back, light-headed and giddy.

The nurse came over to tend to another baby standing in a nearby cot. She smiled at the couple. "She's good as gold, that one. Quiet little angel."

"Little angel," Shelagh repeated softly. She reached out to stroke the child's soft cheek and the little girl grabbed her fingertip, her grip tiny but strong, as if she were saying hello.

Little angel. She had her name.

Shelagh smiled at Patrick. "Angela. Angela Turner."


	5. Mother and Child

**_Author's note:_** _I love writing Shelagh and Timothy (maybe even more than writing Shelagh and Patrick) This is just a missing scene between Shelagh and Timothy during Ep. 3.5, when Timothy is trying to spread his wings. This is after Shelagh starts working at Nonnatus, but before Tim gets his braces off._

"If you need anything, or if you get tired -"

"You'll be at Nonnatus, I know, you told me. Twice already." Timothy rolled his eyes. Shelagh gave him a stern glare in return, and he looked slightly chastened. She was slowly learning how to deal with her stepson's sarcasm and had found that channeling just a little of Sister Evangelina's toughness often helped, in more ways than one.

 _He's an 11-year-old boy, he needs to spread his wings,_ Patrick had said, and he was right. Timothy had come home from playing cricket yesterday breathless, excited and happier than she'd seen him in weeks. So they'd talked - all three of them - at dinner and agreed that Timothy could play out with the other boys, as long as they remained in sight of Nonnatus House, where Fred or one of the mothers, nuns or nurses could keep an eye out, just in case. This concession did a little to settle her worries though, and her stomach still twisted as they round the corner of Leyland Street and saw a large group of boys, engaged in some sort of roughhousing game.

"There's sandwiches and orange squash for lunch at home, but tell me before you leave and we'll walk back together," she said. "Or you can come to Nonnatus -"

"There's Jack. Bye!" He ran off as quickly as he could, hobbling a bit awkwardly because of his braces. But the other boys didn't seem to mind and quickly included him in their game. She smiled, a bittersweet mix of joy and pride filling her. He was growing up so fast. How long before he didn't need her at all anymore?

She went out at noon, just before Mrs. B laid out luncheon to see if Timothy wanted to come in - but he was nowhere to be seen. There were some of the other boys, still playing a game, but no Timothy. A cold panic filled her body and she fought the urge to rush into the street and demand to know the whereabouts of her son.

"Looking for Timothy?" Fred said from his post near the steps, where he was oiling the chains on some of the bicycles. He grinned. "Don't worry, Mrs. Turner. He just went home with young Jack for lunch."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you Fred." She turned and went back up the steps. She wanted to scold Tim when he got back for running off with Jack without telling her - but should she? She'd watched the mothers at clinics and none of them seemed particularly worried about their children's whereabouts once they left their prams.

Then again, those mothers often had several younger children to worry about as well, whereas she had one child. One child who was her responsibility, one child who she had wanted to care for long before she even realized she was in love with his father. One child, who, if anything happened to him, she would never forgive herself.

 _"I think you forfeited your right to lecture me or anyone else on the religious life."_

Once Sister Evangelina had left the office, Shelagh took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. As happy as she was in her married life, there were certain things she missed about Nonnatus House - the quiet in early mornings, the singing in evening and morning prayers, the lively conversations with the sisters and nurses. But Sister Evangelina's temper? She didn't miss that at all. It had taken all of her patience not to burst into tears.

She'd been sitting in this office for too long, trying to make sense of the nursing rota and patient files. She just needed a break. If she were at the surgery and Patrick wasn't busy, she might have slipped into his office for a Henley, a chat and a stolen kiss, but here at Nonnatus the only vices available to her were a slice of Mrs B's cake and a cup of tea, and they would do for now.

She was surprised to find her stepson sitting in kitchen, fork poised over a half-eaten slice of almond sponge.

"Timothy? I thought you were playing. Are you feeling all right?" She placed a hand on his forehead, but he twisted away.

"I'm fine, I just got hungry." He sighed heavily and stabbed at the cake. "And Jack and Billy and everyone wanted to ride bikes and I don't have a bike and can't ride one anyway, so Fred said I could come in and have some cake."

"Oh, Timothy." She wanted to reach out and hold him, but she knew he'd push her away just now. Lately, she'd been lucky to get a hug and a kiss at bedtime.

Instead, she poured herself a cup of tea and sat down across from him. "You didn't have to sit here all by yourself. You could have come to find me."

"I don't mind. And you were busy," he said matter-of-factly.

How much of Sister Evangelina's tirade had he heard? She hoped he'd been too preoccupied with cake to hear her final words. She decided to play it off. "Well, I'm not busy now. Is there any of that cake left?"

He nodded. "I think so. Fred put the tin in the bread box, so Sister Monica Joan wouldn't find it."

She laughed as she rose to retrieve it. "I doubt that would have deterred her for long. If there is cake, she tends to find it."

She cut herself a slice and sat back down. "Fred told me you went to Jack's for lunch?"

"Jack said I could and his mum didn't mind –"

"Timothy, it's all right that you went to Jack's but you need to tell me first," she said firmly. "I went out looking for you at lunch. I was worried. I didn't know where you'd gone until Fred told me."

He looked down at his cake crumbs. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

She sipped her tea, considering. "And perhaps you should ask Jack over to ours for lunch one day, so we can return the favor." She gave him a teasing smirk. "I don't want Jack's mother thinking I don't feed you properly."

Timothy's expression brightened. "On Saturday?"

She set down her cup. "Not this Saturday, I'm afraid," she said gently. "We've got an appointment with the polio nurse, remember? To see about your legs and getting the braces off?"

"Oh. Right. Do I have to go?"

A dark cloud settled back over his features and she frowned, confused. "You were so excited about it at dinner yesterday. What's the matter?"

He shrugged. "I've just – what I can't do it? What if I always need braces? What if I'm always slow?"

A lump rose in her throat. She hadn't wanted him to be ill – never ill – but she had liked how much he had needed her over the past few months. Now she felt guilty, for wanting him with her so often. She scooted her chair over to his side of the table.

"Sometimes when we're ill - very ill, like you were - it just takes a longer time for us to heal and for things to get back to normal. It can be frustrating."

He nodded and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Were you ever frustrated when you were in the sanatorium?"

"Frustrated. And scared." And confused. And lonely. But she didn't like to dwell on those months, especially now when she knew she still carried scars from her time there, and that things would never be "normal." She blinked back her tears, took another sip of her tea and focused her attention on her stepson.

"But I don't think you have anything to worry about. Six months ago you were too weak to stand on your own, and now you're playing cricket. You'll get the braces off, you'll walk on your own and you'll be beating the other boys soon," she said, making an effort to smile.

"I can already beat Jack," he said, with an impish grin and she chuckled.

There was the sound of quick purposeful steps in the hallway, and Sister Winifred appeared in the doorway. "Timothy Turner? Fred said you'd be in here. There's a boy outside looking for you."

His grin widened. "That'll be Jack." He stuffed the last piece of cake in his mouth. "Thanks Shelagh!"

He hurried from the table, clattering down the hall, and Shelagh heard the convent's large door open and slam shut behind him.

"Lovely boy," Sister Winifred said. "Such a shame about his legs."

She felt a well of protective anger rise in her chest – but the sister meant well, she reminded herself. She stood to return to her office, taking her tea and cake with her. "He'll be perfectly fine, Sister. Perfectly fine."


	6. Fever Dreams

"Would you like me to take a look at that?"

Though the voice was familiar, Patrick Turner still jumped slightly and dropped the tweezers again. Sister Bernadette stood in the doorway of the clinic kitchen, her hands clasped in front of her and a kind, patient smile on her face.

"One of the spirit lamps broke. I've cleaned most of it up, but I've got this infinitesimal piece of glass in my thumb I can't seem to get out." He held out his injured hand for her inspection.

She stepped forward and took his hand in both her own. Patrick drew in a sharp breath. Her hands were so soft, sure and careful, like herself. He watched, barely breathing, as she picked up the tweezers and deftly removed the sliver of glass from his thumb.

"There. All better." She set the tweezers back on the counter, but didn't let go of his hand. Her thumb pressed gently into his palm, and his fingers curled around it of their own accord. There had been so many times over the past months when he'd instinctively reached for her hand, desperate even for that innocent contact, but stopped himself at the last minute. Now he had it, and he didn't want to let go.

"Th – Thank you," he stuttered. He was having a hard time remembering how to speak, or what words even were at this moment.

"Of course, doctor." She smiled at him, stroking his knuckles with the fingers of her other hand. "We can't have you working injured. Your hands are very important."

She slowly lifted his hand to her lips and kissed his fingertips.

Patrick couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't feel anything except her soft lips on his hand. This was wrong; he should stop her before she did something she would regret. But he'd ached for her touch for so long –

She met his gaze, her blue eyes wide with desire, and something in Patrick snapped. He pulled her roughly to him, hands gripping her elbows, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

She stilled immediately; he gone too far. He pulled away and stepped back, mumbling desperate apologies.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I –"

She cut him off with another kiss, gentle and a little fumbling due to their height difference, but he responded with enthusiasm, pulling her close again and wrapping his arms around her waist. She ran her hands up his forearms to grip his shoulders, spurring him to deepen the kiss.

He shouldn't be doing this – kissing a _nun_ and respected colleague at their workplace?! What was he thinking? He wasn't – it was impossible to think when she was teasing his lower lip with her tongue like that. He mimicked the movement, and she moaned softly into his mouth. Patrick made a silent pact with himself: he'd stop when she wanted to stop. And right now, she didn't seem to want to stop.

Her fingers threaded into his hair and she pulled away slightly to press kisses to his cheek, his jaw and his ear. "Oh, doctor –"

"Patrick," he said, breathless. "Call me my name. Call me Patrick."

Her answering smile was beatific. "Patrick," she said shyly, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks. "My Patrick."

Patrick had never thought much about his own name, but hearing it from her lips – something about the way she said it, claiming him for herself – sent a jolt of desire straight to his core. He wanted to be as close to her as possible. He captured her lips with his again, and gently maneuvered her backwards until she was pressed up against the kitchen wall, and he against her.

His hands remained firmly on her waist as they kissed, but her fingers traveled, moving up his chest, caressing his shoulders and then running down his torso and along his ribs. Even through the layers of clothing, the feeling of her hands on him drove him nearly wild and Patrick could feel himself losing control.

One of her hands moved up to the open collar of his shirt and slipped underneath, stroking the line of his collarbone. The touch of her fingers on his heated skin brought Patrick back to his senses, and he pulled away.

"We – we can't do this," he gasped.

She pouted, her lips swollen from kissing. "Why? I want to."

His desire-clouded brain tried to scramble for a reason. "Because – because – there's a baby crying?" And there was – he could hear it whimpering, clear as day. "Do you hear that?"

He stepped back, left the kitchen and went into the hall. It was empty, but the baby's cries increased. Where was she? He had to find her, make sure she was all right and soothe her until she stopped crying. She probably just needed a nappy change, or a bottle or someone to hold her – where was the baby?

Patrick snapped awake. His head ached, his throat was on fire, his heart pounded like he'd just run a mile, and he felt uncomfortably hot and sweaty. He caught a shaft of bright afternoon sunlight peeking through the gap in the bedroom curtains, and remembered. He was ill and in bed for the day on Shelagh's orders. His and Shelagh's bed. Shelagh hadn't been Sister Bernadette for nearly three years. They were married, and they had two children. And the cries, the ones he'd heard in his dream, were coming from Angela's crib nearby. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. It was just a fever dream. A very strange fever dream.

He stretched to attend to the baby, but Shelagh scurried out of the bath in her dressing gown, hair wrapped in a towel.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Patrick. I set her down for five minutes to wash my hair and couldn't hear her over the sound of the bath." She picked up the whimpering child. "She's just lost her teething ring, that's all. There, that's better, isn't it?" Angela quieted after a moment, and Shelagh shifted her to her other hip. "So, how's the patient?"

"Much better. I think I'll be able to go back to the surgery to –" he doubled over in a fit of coughing. Shelagh set the baby down and passed him the glass of water on the bedside table.

"That's what I thought," she said. "You're not going anywhere tomorrow."

"Shelagh, it's just a cough –"

"And a sore throat and a fever. Running yourself into the ground when you're ill won't help any of your patients. You'll stay home again tomorrow and let me take care of you."

Patrick grumbled but settled back into the pillows. "Yes, Nurse Turner." There would be mountains of paperwork awaiting him when he returned, but his head ached too much to think about that now.

And the enticing yet incredibly strange dream he'd just had worried him even more. His dreams about Shelagh when she had been a nun hadn't been nearly that vivid. Why would he dream about her as Sister Bernadette now? It was probably just the fever. He tried not to think about it. "Why were you washing your hair?"

Shelagh rolled her eyes. "Your daughter decided applesauce tasted good but would look much better smeared in Mummy's hair. I was going to wash it anyway tomorrow, so harm done." She frowned. "Are you sure you're not feeling worse, Patrick? You looked rather wild-eyed when you woke up."

He swallowed painfully. "I'm fine, Shelagh."

She stroked back his hair and pressed a cool hand to his forehead. "You still feel feverish. I'll get the thermometer, and some more aspirin."

Patrick let her fuss over him, getting him tea and aspirin, retrieving a cold compress from the kitchen, taking his temperature. In her dark blue dressing gown, with her hair tucked under a towel and her face free of makeup, Shelagh looked much like she had during her years as Sister Bernadette. On another day, this would have amused Patrick, but after that dream…it was disconcerting, like being faced with a past he thought he'd buried. What if one day Shelagh did regret leaving the order? He was slightly – no, quite a bit older – than her. What if one day in their twilight years she tired of taking care of him and wanted to be Sister Bernadette again?

"Shelagh," he muttered around the thermometer. "Take the towel off."

She frowned. "Why?"

He spat out the thermometer. "Please. Just take it off, please."

Her frown deepened, but she did as he asked. Her hair fell down around her shoulders in wet, dark gold strands and he caught the clean scent of her shampoo. He tucked one damp lock behind her ear, and she grinned and blushed slightly. There she was. There was his Shelagh.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a burden like this and making you take care of me."

She grasped his hand. "Patrick, I love you. But sometimes you are ridiculous." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, once, twice. "Caring for you is not a burden – never a burden. In sickness and in health, remember?"

"In sickness and in health," He ran his thumb over her wedding band and felt comforted.

"And I intend to get you back to good health by Saturday," she said.

"What's going on Saturday?"

She shrugged. "Nothing in particular. Timothy's got an all-day cricket outing and Sister Julienne and the other nuns are dying to spend some time with Angela." She smiled slowly. "If you could bear to spend another afternoon in bed, I might join you. If you're feeling better, that is."

Patrick grinned wickedly. "Oh, I think I'll be feeling much better by Saturday."


	7. The Great Silence

**_Author's note: An introspective one-shot fic that takes places between the end of series 1 and the Christmas Special._**

The quiet in the early morning bothered him the most. The rest of his day was filled with the cacophony of crowded streets, ailing patients, worried mothers, new babies and Timothy's inquisitive chatter. And paperwork. There was always more paperwork to occupy his mind. He often fell asleep at night doing paperwork. He worked until he was too tired to think or brood over the past, too tired for even dreams. Then he was able to sleep.

But the quiet and stillness in the morning before Timothy woke – no matter how he tried, he couldn't fill that. That was when he thought of her most often.

Margaret had never been quiet or still. She nearly always woke before him, and she seemed to stay in constant motion from morning til night. There was always something to do, she said.

Born with the gift of being able to talk to anyone, she did – his patients, her piano students, the nuns, the greengrocer and even the traveling salesman at the door. That was how they ended up with that hideous cheap carpet upstairs. Tea and a half-hour chat about the salesman's wife and children back in Swansea, and three weeks later, the hall was patterned with pink and green roses the size of cabbages. Margaret complained about it once it came – the sample pattern hadn't been nearly that bright – but said she wasn't about to ask for a refund, because "George and his wife had three little boys and another on the way and they needed the money." For all her teasing and sarcasm, she could be incredibly kind.

Her cancer had slowed her down physically, but it never affected her tongue. Many times he had come from rounds to find her chattering away on the phone to an old friend or playing Monopoly with Timothy. They had tournament going, she insisted, and she was not about to let Timothy win just because she loved him.

"Sleep," he told her. "You need your rest."

She smiled, somewhat sadly. "Plenty of time for that later, Patrick."

After her death, he tried to be home as often as he could, for Timothy's sake. But the silence in the house – it was unbearable sometimes. Work was easier.

The call out to Mrs. Barrie's yesterday evening had been a blessing to his unquiet mind. Both he and Nurse Miller were there all night, but at the end, mother and baby were both healthy. It was raining when they left, and her bike had a puncture, so he offered to drive the young midwife back to Nonnatus.

"Thank you, doctor," she said as he lifted the bike out of the car and wheeled it to the banana sheds. "I know you must be eager to get home."

Home. It was still very early; Timothy would be asleep for another two hours or so. He could go to the maternity home and catch up on paperwork. But it would be quiet and still there too.

"Actually, would you mind if I came in a moment? I have some paperwork I need to drop off with Sister Julienne –"

"Certainly," she said, frowning. "But the nuns will still be in morning prayers –"

"I don't mind waiting. I'll stay in the hall. I won't be a bother, I promise."

"All right." They both made a mad dash from the sheds to the door and into the convent. Nurse Miller excused herself to dry off, and Patrick paced the corridor, waiting for – what? He didn't know. He could leave the paperwork outside the Sister's office and leave if he wanted.

Far down the corridor, he could hear the nuns singing morning prayers in the chapel. He couldn't make out any of the words, just the clear bell-like sound of the cantor, and the soft chant of the other nuns' reply. It was soothing and tranquil, almost like a lullaby, and he leaned against the cold brick and closed his eyes.

Maybe it was exhaustion, or the singing – Margaret had always loved to hear the singing in church and he hadn't been back since her death – but he suddenly felt done in by it all. Tears welled up and he closed his eyes tighter against them.

He'd leave in a minute, go back to his car, smoke a Henley to compose himself and then drive home. He'd show Timothy how much he loved him and how grateful he was that they still had each other. He'd push through another day.

"Dr. Turner?"

He opened his eyes to see Sister Bernadette standing before him, her forehead creased in a frown. "You're here early. Is something wrong?"

He stood up straight and replaced his fedora on his head. "No, I was just dropping off Nurse Miller. We were both out at Mrs. Barrie's early this morning, when it started raining, so I gave her lift back." He smiled, not wanting her to worry. "And now it's home to get Timothy up for school."

She stepped closer, her eyes full of…. something. There was not the usual pity he got as a widower with a young son, but rather, understanding, as if she knew how hard it was to live in the quiet.

But that was ridiculous. She was nun; her entire life was centered on quiet reflection. It was no burden for her. He turned to leave.

"Doctor? Would you like to sit, have some tea, talk a while before you leave?" she said, with a small smile. "That is, if you're not too tired and you have the time?"

Time to talk? He sighed in relief. He had all the time in the world for that.

* * *

She had always found comfort in the quiet. The Great Silence. After a day of cycling through noisy, busy streets, making comforting small talk as she attended to patients, and trying to instill order in the crowds of mothers and young children at clinics, it was a relief not to talk. Instead, there was prayer and reflection, and through that peace.

Only lately, she'd had a harder time finding that peace. She would retire to her room for night, physically exhausted, but then lie awake, unable to sleep. Or she would open her Bible to read a passage, but the words would blur and jumble. There were ripples in the still calm of her mind, as though someone had dropped a stone there, and the thoughts spread outwards, growing into questions and then, doubts.

To have faith was to have doubt; she knew that well. She'd had doubts about her calling before, especially when she was young and still in training, when the days were long and the nights too short, when the corridors were cold in winter, and the elder sisters were strict or sometimes bossy. But she'd push through. For every bad day, there was a good one, winter turned to summer, and eventually, Sister Evangelina learned that while the young novice might be quiet, she was not stupid. She took her vows, became Sister Bernadette, and for the first time in years, found a place that felt like home.

Ten years had passed since then. Why did she suddenly feel restless now? Was it her work? Was it still a fulfilling service to the community and in turn, God, or was it just work? Had she done all the good she could do in Poplar? Was it time to move on? Time to leave home?

Those were some of the questions that ran, round and round, in her mind at night, and led her out of her room to the chapel. She was becoming quite Sister Monica Joan-like with her midnight wanderings.

Once, on her way back from one of these meditations, she'd seen the light shining through the crack in the door of one of the nurse's rooms and heard the muffled giggles within. She leaned against the cold brick outside the door and listened to their murmured conversation. Eavesdropping was wrong, but she listened anyway and let herself imagine what it might be like inside the room, giggling over Chummy's latest night out with Constable Noakes or discussing what they were going to wear to the dance Saturday night. She'd never been to a dance, and she wasn't even sure if she'd like it very much, but the dressing up part always seemed like fun.

When was the last time she'd worn a pretty dress? Not since she'd left Aberdeen at least. Just before she'd traveled to London for her nurses' training, her aunt had given her a small going away party, just her, her father and a few of her cousins. She'd borrowed a dress from one of them – it was green rayon, with flowers stitched in white on the collar. She remembered standing on a chair in front of the mirror in the hall, turning carefully and flaring the skirt out. The party itself had been a bit stilted, everyone unsure of how to say goodbye, especially her taciturn father, but she remembered the dress.

She dreamed of dresses that night, and slept better than she had in a while.

But she felt terrible the next morning during Lauds. Vanity, jealousy, eavesdropping – what was wrong with her? Why couldn't she push past this, like she had with every other doubt? Why did she keep questioning?

More to do. Perhaps that was the answer. If she kept busy and active, her mind couldn't wander to "what ifs." She'd volunteer to be on call more often, organize more classes for the nurses and offer to look after Sister Monica Joan. She'd pray for guidance and hope that eventually, she'd find her way back to her calling.

As she left the chapel for the kitchen, she spotted a dark, familiar shadow in the corridor.

"Dr. Turner? You're here early. Is something wrong?"

"No, I was just dropping off Nurse Miller. We were both out at Mrs. Barrie's early this morning, when it started raining, so I gave her lift back." He smiled stiffly and with some effort. "And now it's home to get Timothy up for school."

He looked so tired. They were all used to exhaustion – the babies of Poplar made sure of that – but this seemed a different kind of lethargy. It wasn't grief exactly, but she did recognize it from the long months after her mother died.

"He's lonely," her aunt had said when she'd asked why her father never talked anymore. "Being lonely, and raising a child on your own, makes you tired, too tired to talk sometimes, even when you really want to. You have to be patient with him and ready to listen."

"Doctor?"

He had headed for the door, hat already on, but he turned back eagerly.

"Would you like to sit, have some tea, talk awhile before you leave? That is, if you're not too tired and you have the time?"

His shoulders sagged, like he'd been holding himself up for too long, and his mouth stretched into a grin, small, but genuine this time. "Well, it is still raining. Better to let Tim sleep anyway. Tea would be lovely, thank you."


	8. Spiders

Timothy Turner burst through the back door, his knees covered in dirt and his hands cupped around a glass jar full of leaves and twigs. "Dad! Dad! Dad!"

"No shouting and running in the house, Tim, we've talked about this," Patrick scolded from his cross-legged position on the sitting room floor. It was his first Saturday off in a month and he was occupied with a very important task: trying to find what combination of tickling and funny faces made Angela laugh the most. He tickled her belly once more and was rewarded with a squealing gurgle before he turned to his son. "What is it?"

"Look what Colin and I found in the garden." Timothy held out the jar, which at close view, revealed a brown and orange spider about the size of Angela's fist among the foliage. "It's not poisonous — I checked in the book I got from the library last week — but I've never seen one this big before. What kind do you think it is?"

Patrick took the jar and examined its captive more closely. "I'd say it was just your common garden spider, though you're right, it is rather large. Maybe Mum knows."

"What's that?" Shelagh came out of the kitchen where she'd been preparing their lunch.

"Look." Timothy took the jar from his father and showed it to her. Shelagh peered at it, blanched, took a step back and shuddered.

"Take _that_ back outside please, Timothy," she said, taking another step back. "And then get Colin and go wash up, please. It's almost time for lunch."

"All right." He dashed back into the sunny garden.

Patrick watched as his wife turned for the kitchen, her shoulders still twitching slightly. He rose from the floor, placed Angela in her playpen, followed Shelagh to the kitchen and leaned against the doorway.

"You're scared of spiders."

Her cheeks pinked in embarrassment. "Not scared, exactly. I just don't like them." She began spooning cling peaches into a glass bowl next to the plate of sandwiches. "Once, when I was about 12 or 13, one of my older cousins put a spider in my bed as a joke. It was — " She made a face and shuddered again. "Not pleasant."

Patrick chuckled slightly. "I'll bet."

She set down the spoon. "Now, I just see one and I get a crawling feeling up my spine." She shivered again and rubbed the back of her neck. "I suppose I'm lucky Timothy's interest usually runs more to caterpillars and butterflies."

"Indeed." Timothy brought home all kinds of crawling creatures, but this was the first time he'd ever seen Shelagh squirm at one of them. It was rather amusing. "But what do you do when one gets in the house?"

Her grin turned even more sheepish. "I call Timothy. It's only happened once or twice." Her eyes widened. "But, goodness, they were everywhere at Nonnatus in the summer. Sister Evangelina hated them too —"

"Wait, Sister Evangelina is scared of spiders?" His smile widened.

"Don't you dare," she said, her voice stern, but her eyes dancing. "She'll know I told you. And if the nurses found out, it would be absolute chaos."

"You're probably right." Teasing the elder nun about her fear, even lightly, wouldn't be pleasant for anyone. Teasing his wife, however, could lead to very pleasant consequences. He moved closer so he was standing behind her and rested his hands lightly on her hips.

She leaned into him and looked out through the kitchen hatch toward the sunlight back windows. "It's lovely out today. How would you feel about lunch in the garden?"

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

She turned slightly in his arms and he could see the edge of her frown. "Why not?"

His fingers moved upwards, tickling across her lower back. "Well, all those spiders —"

"Patrick Turner, stop it right now."

"Creeping and crawling…" His hands traveled to her shoulders, then brushed across her neck. She laughed and tried to squirm away, but he caught her around the waist and turned her so she was facing him.

"Don't worry. I'll protect you," he whispered and attacked her stomach with teasing hands. She gave a giggly shriek before exacting her own revenge, tickling all the places she could reach — his stomach, his chest, under his arms, the side of his neck — until the thundering of two pairs of feet on the stairs forced them apart. They were still laughing when Timothy and Colin appeared.

"What's so funny?" Timothy asked.

Patrick smirked. "Mum thought she saw another spider."


	9. Not A Date

Barbara ran her sweaty palms down her skirt, wishing she could smooth away the butterflies in her stomach as easily as she smoothed wrinkles from the fabric. She checked her face in the mirror again and scrubbed two fingers across her mouth to remove her borrowed lipstick. This was not a date.

She'd told Phyllis as much when the older nurse had questioned her plans to spend the evening with Reverend Hereward - Tom.

"It's just dinner," she'd said. "It's not 'going out' going out."

Phyllis gave her the same suspicious look she always gave diabetes patients when they told her they hadn't touched Quality Street in years. "Does he know it's not 'going out,' going out?"

"Yes," Barbara insisted. With a jerk, she turned her bike to cycle away. She studiously avoided looking toward the vicarage as she passed.

She and Tom were only friends, just like Tom and Trixie were now only friends. The reverend and the bubbly blonde nurse had been engaged once, and nearly married, but something had happened to set them at odds, and now they weren't anymore. But they still talked on occasion, and more than once, Barbara had seen Trixie staring at her former fiance in such a lonely, sad way, that she thought she must still be in love with him.

So tonight was not a date. It was dinner with a friend, who had only invited her because she'd expressed an interest in trying Indian food.

Trixie had probably already tried Indian food. She was terribly worldly and clever, much cleverer than Barbara, who often felt like she was a child who had been permitted to sit at the adult's table whenever she talked with Trixie and her equally mysterious roommate, Patsy. They'd both probably been on loads of dates, and knew exactly what to wear and say and do. They'd know if this was even a date or not.

Oh Lord, what if it _was_ a date? She should cancel then. She couldn't go out with _Tom._ He'd only just been engaged to Trixie last year. She couldn't do that to her friend. She'd go downstairs, call him and cancel right now before either of them made a mistake.

She reached for the door, but it swung open of its own accord. Sister Julienne smiled at her from the other side.

"Nurse Gilbert, Reverend Hereward is here to see you." Her smile faltered. "Why, you look lovely."

Was there something on her dress? Barbara glanced down at her outfit. "Thanks? Do you think it's all right?"

"Is what all right, Nurse Gilbert?"

 _This dinner, which may or may not be a date, with a man my friend may or may not still be in love with._ She looked to the Sister, hoping she'd sense her distress and give her an easy way out, but the nun's face remained placid and inscrutable. "The - The dress," she finally stuttered. "Does it look all right?"

Sister Julienne gave her a quick once over. "I'm sure it will do, for dinner with a good friend."

 _Dinner with a friend. That's all this was._ Barbara let out a long, deep breath and felt better. "I won't be back too late," she promised the Sister as she passed her. "It's only dinner, and then home."

She told herself that again when she saw Tom waiting at the bottom of the stairs and her heart started kicking in her chest. _It's only dinner, and then home._ He turned and smiled at her. He looked different without his dog collar, dressed in a crisp, smart shirt with his hair slicked back. She felt her face flush - oh no, was she blushing? _Deep breaths, Barbara._ _It's only dinner, and then home._

"Hello," she said, with forced breeziness.

"Hello. I, um, got you these." He held out a striped paper sack. "Sherbert lemons, on the off chance dinner turns out to be terrible. I don't really know what to expect."

She laughed and accepted the sweets, touched he'd remembered their conversation on the bus. "Thank you. I don't know what to expect either," she confessed with a sigh. "I have a couple patients from India, but I've never tried any of their food. I've heard it can be quite spicy."

He raised an eyebrow and grinned. "I'll consider myself warned."

She let him help her into her coat and usher her out the door into the chilly spring night. She tried not to think about his hands, light on her shoulders, or the brief whiff of his aftershave she'd caught when he'd stepped near or the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled, making him look suspiciously roughish for a vicar. This was not a date. _Only dinner, and then home._

###

It was awful. She had a wonderful time, and it was awful.

They talked continuously during their walk to the restaurant and all through the meal. Barbara was certain she'd never said so much in her life, but Tom was a good listener (he probably had to be, being a vicar). They talked about her patients, his work in the parish, their families - they both came from large ones - the silly things the children said and did during Sunday School, and why they'd both come to Poplar.

"I was assigned here by the bishop," Tom said. "I wasn't sure about leaving home at first, but now I think it's where I needed to be most. I needed to make something of my own."

Barbara smiled, a spark of kinship flaring in her heart. "My mum and dad hated me going so far away. And I do miss them," she said, remembering her melancholy at Christmas. "But I'm glad I came here, too."

When the food arrived, they both put on brave faces and dug in.

"This is delicious," Barbara said, sampling a dish covered in a yellow sauce. "But I'm not exactly sure what it is."

Tom laughed, then took a large bite from his own meal. His eyes widened and his face turned bright red.

"Tom? Are you all right?" Oh no - was he choking? Barbara was just about to rise from her seat and help him when he reached for his water glass and gulped it down.

"Sorry," he rasped. "That was spicier than I was prepared for."

She gave him a sympathetic smile and pushed the carafe in his direction. "More water?"

###

"So, what's the verdict?" Tom asked, two hours later as they left the restaurant.

"It was wonderful!" Barbara exclaimed before she could stop herself. "I mean, the food was _different_ , but overall, it was an interesting experience," she added, borrowing a phrase from Phyllis.

Tom grinned. "Shall we stick to fish and chips next time?"

 _Next time?_ Barbara blanched. She hadn't thought. She'd been so caught up in the conversation and laughter and food and talking with Tom and listening to Tom and watching Tom smile that she'd completely forgotten to remind herself that this was _not a date_.

"Or we could all come next time - with the others," she said, nerves making her voice hitch and catch.

Tom frowned. "The others?"

"I'm sure Patsy and Trixie and Phyllis would love to try a place like this. Phyllis especially. She's very interested in other cultures."

Tom nodded but said nothing else.

On the walk home, Barbara talked a little about her plans for the Sunday school class the following week, but Tom only smiled politely and nodded, his mind seemingly elsewhere. Silence descended on them like the night, and Barbara was relieved when they finally reached the convent.

"Thank you for inviting me," she said at the door. "It really was rather splendid."

"I'm glad you liked it." Tom stepped closer, his eyes full of something Barbara both longed for and dreaded. "Barbara, you should know that Trixie and I -"

She spoke quickly, afraid of what he might say and how it might change her. "I'm afraid I've got early rounds tomorrow. Nurse Crane put me on the district rota this week, so I really should be turning in."

He stepped back, his face a blank, polite mask. Only Reverend Hereward again, not Tom. "I understand. See you Sunday?"

She nodded, words she lacked the courage to say stuck in her throat, and then let herself in.

No one greeted her at the door. The nuns were at Compline; she could hear their plainsong. Phyllis was most likely asleep, and she imagined Patsy and Trixie were up in their room, gossiping and listening to records. Yes, she could see a light under their door as she passed. Barbara tiptoed to her own room, not wanting to disturb anyone.

It had not been a date. But it was still lovely, she thought as she slipped into bed, and allowed herself a small, giddy smile. She'd never had anyone pay attention to her the way Tom did. She'd always just been practical, naive, reliable Barbara. A good friend to have in a pinch, but easily forgotten when things were rosy. Tom had sought her out, treated her to dinner, bought her sweets and made her feel and want things she'd never considered before. He made her dream.

A loud burst of laughter, Trixie's infectious giggle, emanated from down the hall. Barbara frowned, guilt twisting her stomach. Even if it wasn't a date, she would have to tell Trixie.

Because, even though it wasn't a date, it had been wonderful, and that was the problem.


	10. Love Was His Meaning

**_A/N: 1000-word drabble from Shelagh's POV. Spoilers for Episode 4.2_**

She knew the instant she answered the phone that all was not right. There was hesitance and pain in the voice at the other end.

"Is everything all right, Sister?" she asked.

"I've just had some news. About a friend. An old friend, who – " a hitched sigh "—who passed away, recently."

Shelagh let out a sharp breath. "Someone from the Order?" Many of the nuns were elderly, and the community that had been her only family for nearly a decade was slowly dying out.

Another pause. "No. Before that."

"Oh." She hadn't thought about before. She hadn't known Sister Julienne before. She had always thought of her as Sister Julienne, the way a child always thinks of its mother as "Mum."

Sister Julienne's voice sounded very small at the other end. "Would you – I'm in need of counsel and –"

"Of course," she said. "I'll be right over." She finished with the files she was organizing and let Patrick know what had happened, then walked as briskly as she could from the surgery to the convent on Leyland Street.

She found Sister Julienne not in her office, but in the chapel, alone. She stood at the altar, arranging flowers. Shelagh couldn't see her face, but the nun's bent shoulders and slow movements belied her grief.

"Sister?"

The nun turned and now Shelagh could see the tear tracks on her cheeks and how sadness weighed down her smile. "Shelagh. How are you?"

She stepped closer and took the nun's hands in her own. "How are _you_ , Sister?"

"I'm –" Her chin trembled and she stopped. Shelagh tugged her gently into one of the chairs and sat beside her. She opened her handbag and gave the nun her handkerchief.

She'd never seen Sister Julienne this distraught – not when the original convent was demolished, not when she left the Order, not during any of the hard and sometimes tragic births they'd attended together over the years. She looked adrift, like she'd lost her moorings. It made Shelagh feel a bit adrift, too.

"Thank you," the Sister said after a few moments.

"They must have been a dear friend," Shelagh said.

"They – _he_ was."

He?

The nun must have caught the slightly shocked frown on Shelagh's face, because she smiled and patted her hand. "I should start from the beginning."

Shelagh listened as Sister Julienne told her about Charles Newgarden, how they first met, the man he was then and the woman she was before. She told her how she fell in love.

At one point, the Sister handed her a copy of Revelations of Divine Love, one page marked with a photograph and a letter. Shelagh gazed at the picture in wonder. The woman in it looked so young and so different. She looked somebody who would answer to Louise, a woman in love. A woman with a different life ahead of her.

"I thought I knew what love was. I thought I knew what faith was," the nun said. "But I didn't."

"You felt a calling," Shelagh said softly. She had felt that calling herself once. To ignore it was impossible.

"Yes," Sister Julienne said. She stood, went to the altar and began arranging the flowers again. The sight reminded Shelagh of the times she'd sat in chapel, trying to pray but lost in anguish, because of the love growing steadily in her heart. Love was also impossible to ignore.

"We exchanged letters over the years," Sister Julienne continued. "And I visited him recently. We talked and made amends. He wished to create a legacy for Nonnatus in his will. I received word of his passing this morning, in that letter."

Shelagh's heart broke for her friend as she read it. "I am sorry, Sister," she said, at a loss for more comforting words.

"Who could I turn to, if not you?" she said. "Who would console me, if not you?"

What possible consolation could she offer? Sister Julienne had comforted her so many times, and she wanted to help. But how?

Shelagh glanced down at the prayer book in her hands and found the answer where she always did, habit or no – in God.

"You don't need me to console you, Sister. The words are in here, and you know them in your heart as I do."

"The money he left us will restore the building to such good order our clinical certificate will be renewed without question. We can carry on serving the people who need us." She sounded so weary. Was it from grief? Shelagh wondered. Or regret?

Timothy had asked her once if she regretted joining the Order. "If you hadn't been a nun, you could have married Dad a lot sooner," he said, stretched out on his hospital bed, his schoolwork forgotten in his lap for the moment. "And all those women wouldn't gossip behind your back."

She pursed her lips. It was just after Christmas and their first canceled wedding ceremony, and Shelagh had already heard more than her share of mean-spirited gossip. She'd learned to ignore it, but she hated to think of such lies worrying Timothy, especially when he was still recovering from polio.

"I felt a calling. It was my life, my family and my work for 10 years. It was where I was supposed to be," she said gently. "And if I hadn't joined the Order, I would have never even met your father."

Timothy gave her mischievous grin. She adored that grin. "Or me."

She laughed. "Or you."

Now, she tried to summon some of the wisdom she so easily passed along to Timothy, that Sister Julienne had once passed on to her. "Do you not believe that it was meant? The chance you didn't take was intended all along?"

"I don't know." Her voice broke. "And I don't know, how to not know anymore. I have so often had to be the wise one."

Yes, Shelagh thought, she had. She had given her advice and her love freely whenever she had asked for it, no matter if she was Sister Bernadette or Shelagh Turner. She had often wondered, during her own times of trial, how Sister Julienne could be so forgiving and understanding. The nun had seemed almost like a saint to her at times, especially when she was still a young postulant.

But she was only human, and she was tired, grieving and in need advice herself. Her small smile was a plea for help.

Shelagh gripped the book in her hands. She couldn't take away the pain or the fatigue, but she could offer what she had always been given – love.

"It's in here, Sister," she said, placing a hand over her heart. "Just as much for me as it is for you." Taking a deep breath, she recited the words that had come to her in the sanatorium and propelled her down the road to her new life, to Patrick and Timothy and Angela. "What? Do you wish to know your Lord's meaning in this thing? Know it well. Love was his meaning."


	11. Hidden Talents

**_Author's Note: Originally posted on Tumblr, in response to this prompt -_** _ **atearsarahjane**_ ** _said: Shelagh or Patrick have a secret talent that nobody would expect_**

Timothy Turner let the front door slam behind him and dropped his school bag in the hall. He was starving. He always felt starved after maths; it was all those equations, and the fact that maths was right before the midday break. He hoped Mum had something good for lunch – maybe some of that leftover roast from Sunday dinner. His stomach growled again.

"Mum?"

No answer, and worse, no wonderful smell in the air suggesting she might be cooking. But the curtains in the kitchen were open, letting in the sun. She always closed them when she left house, so she must be upstairs.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen to sneak a biscuit or two out of the jar, but stopped when he saw her.

Well, he could really only see her legs, stretched out on the floor and clad in a pair of black slacks he'd never seen before. The rest of her was hidden in the small space underneath the sink.

"Mum? What are you doing?"

"Repairing the sink," she replied, her voice taking on a strange echo. "It keeps leaking."

He frowned. Dad had always taken care of the repairs in the house, even when it took him ages to get to them. "Do you know how? Shouldn't you wait for Dad to help?"

She sighed and pushed herself out from her hiding place. "Of course I know how to repair a leaking sink, Timothy. The old convent was _very_ old, and Fred's only one man. I'm quite capable." She adjusted the red checked scarf covering her hair and pursed her lips. "And your father has a lot on his mind at the moment."

 _Like what?_ Timothy almost asked, but he bit his tongue. He gathered his parents had had some sort of row on the day of the adoption interview, but he couldn't begin to guess what about. They didn't yell or argue like most parents; it was the opposite. Dad had just been very quiet, while Mum was chattier and busier than ever. A stranger to the house might not think anything wrong, but Tim knew better. When Mum smiled now, Dad didn't smile back – at least not in that goofy way that made Tim roll his eyes. He smiled like something inside him hurt, almost like he had right after Mummy had died.

He had so many questions he wanted to ask. Did this mean there wouldn't be a baby after all? Why couldn't they just apologize to each other? What was wrong? Would things ever get back to normal?

Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets. "Do you want me to help?"

She smiled at him and pushed her smudged glasses farther up her nose. "Thank you. I'm nearly done. If you could just hand me that wrench and that rag there."

He did, and after a few more moments of tinkering, Mum slid out from under the sink again and wiped her hands on the front of her apron. "There. That's sorted, I think. Turn it on, just to be sure."

Tim twisted the handle on the tap slowly. "Any leaks?"

"No. Tight as a tick."

Tim bent over and looked under the sink. "Wow, you really fixed it."

She laughed. "Don't act so shocked, Timothy. And help me up, if you please."

Tim grasped her outstretched hand and helped her to her feet. "Did you really learn that when you were a nun?"

She nodded. "Fred showed me a few pointers, but it was mostly trial and error – lots of errors." Her expression darkened, just for a moment. Before Tim could even wonder what was wrong, she was in a flurry again, prattling on as she untied her apron and took the scarf off her hair.

"Oh, look at the state of me – is it noon already? There are some cold roast beef sandwiches and some fruit you can have in the icebox – not the apples though. I thought I'd make something special for pudding tonight," she said with a wink. "I'm just going to tidy up a bit and then I'll join you." She disappeared up the stairs.

Tim settled down at the table with the plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk. He wondered if he should tell Dad about this afternoon.

No, he thought, tucking into his roast beef. Let him be surprised. He might laugh, and then things would almost be back to normal.

Later that week, when things _were_ back to normal, Patrick came into the kitchen after breakfast, wearing his oldest shirt and carrying his toolbox.

"What are you doing with that?" Shelagh asked, looking askance at her husband's choice of clothing. Based on the frayed cuffs and the number of odd stains, that shirt had definitely seen better days.

"I'm going to fix that leak in the sink." He began rolling up his sleeves. "And Tim is going to help."

At the mention of his name, Tim stopped spinning the propeller on his Spitfire and frowned. "No, I'm not."

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Yes, you are," he said sternly. "Now, put that down –"

"But Dad –"

"You can go to Colin's after lunch. You're growing up, Tim and you're going to be a big brother soon, and part of that is helping out at little more about the house –"

"But Mum already fixed the sink!"

Patrick's brow knit in confusion. "What?" He turned to Shelagh. "You fixed the sink?"

Her cheeks pinked and she smiled – a little smugly, he thought. He looked under the sink. The bucket that had been catching the drips was gone, and everything looked neat and tidy. He tried the tap – smooth, with no squeaks or drips. Better, possibly, than when he and Margaret had moved into the house years ago.

"You fixed the sink," he said, slightly stunned.

Shelagh sighed and rolled her eyes. "A little less surprise would be nice. I do know how to fix things. There were no shortages of repairs needed at the old convent."

"But Fred –"

" – is only one person, as I told Timothy," she said, her smile widening. "We all learned to pick up the odd job here and there. Sister Julienne is rather skilled at carpentry."

Patrick couldn't tell if his wife was teasing or not, but he didn't much care. There was a glint in her eyes – a sparkle that always appeared just before she laughed –and he hadn't seen that look in a while.

"Does this mean I can go to Colin's?" Tim asked.

Patrick thought about telling him off for his cheek earlier, but Shelagh's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Yes, but be back for lunch," she said. "And remember you have piano this afternoon, so no dallying, please."

Tim sighed. "All right. Bye Mum. Bye Dad." He loped quickly down the hall and out the door, slamming it behind him.

Shelagh rinsed the last two tea cups and set them on the rack to dry. She reached behind her back to undo her apron, but Patrick got there first, loosened the knot and slipped it over her head.

"Thank you."

"You could have asked for my help," he said.

"You had other things on your mind." Her smile was gentle and forgiving. "Besides, it's done now."

"Yes," he sighed. "You are full of surprises, Shelagh Turner. What other talents are you hiding?"

She threw her head back in a laugh. "Well, if you're not too busy –"

"I've got the entire morning now." His hands slipped around her waist and he dipped his head toward hers, his voice a whisper. "And with Tim at Colin's—"

"Yes."

For a long moment, nothing was said.

"But first," she continued, when she'd regained her breath. "You have to get rid of this shirt."

He pulled back slightly and frowned. "What's wrong with this shirt?"

"Patrick, have you looked at it? I don't even want to contemplate what half of these stains are." She toyed with the buttons, teasing him again.

"It's not that bad."

She met his eyes, and the heat he saw flickering in their blue depths nearly undid him. "I'm sorry," she said, loosening the top button. "But it has to come off."

"Yes, dear."


	12. Beautiful

**_Author's Note: Inspired by my Call the Midwife rewatch of Episode 1.1. Also, I don't speak Spanish and am relying solely on the Internet for translation, so apologies for anything I've gotten wrong._**

 ** _1949_**

"You'll see to Mrs. Warren today," Sister Evangelina had told her. "She only speaks Spanish, but one of the daughters should be there to translate." She had not said how many daughters there were.

"I'm sure you'll do splendidly," Sister Julienne had said. "Mrs. Warren has been a patient of ours for many years." She had not said for how many years, nor for how many pregnancies.

"Warren?" Sister Monica Joan remarked. "I have always found her surname to be rather appropriate." Sister Bernadette had been in a hurry and had not thought twice about the Sister's mischievous grin.

But when she arrived at the flat, she saw exactly what the mercurial elder nun had been about. The Warren home was crowded and hot, and every corner, closet, bedroom and stairwell seemed to reveal yet another child, like a rabbit warren. The air was thick with the smells of wet laundry, sweat and something spicy and foreign. And the noise. She had to use her loudest, bossiest tone - twice - just to make herself heard over all the chatter in the kitchen.

"I'm looking for a Mrs. Conchita Warren?" she shouted a second time and one of the older girls stood.

"Mama?"

A petite, heavily pregnant woman came forward and greeted her in Spanish. Sister Bernadette looked to the older girl again for help.

"I'll need to examine her. Can you translate?"

The girl nodded. "Sure." She spoke to her mother again. The woman smiled, slow and perfectly at ease, then pointed her toward the bedroom.

Even with the language barrier, the examination was straightforward and went quickly. "How many out there are your brothers and sisters?" Sister Bernadette asked the girl once, as a way of making small talk.

The girl frowned. "All of them."

The young nun struggled to hide her shock. There had to be at least 20 children around that table. 20 children, and another on the way, crowded into a tiny flat in the middle of Poplar. She'd seen large families on farms in Scotland, but never one this large and in such a small space. All that noise, and all those people - how could one live in such chaos?

But then Mr. Warren came home and greeted his wife with a long kiss, oblivious to everyone else in the room. He invited Sister Bernadette to stay for lunch. She sat at a long trestle table with the 20 Warren children around large pots of spicy, delicious soup, scooped up mouthfuls of broth and bread, and listened to them talk in a strange mix of Spanish and Cockney. And when the meal was over and Mrs. Warren sent her back to the convent with a packet of some sort of Spanish sweet rolls, she felt warm, the way she always had after visiting her aunts and cousins for holidays. It was chaos, but it was beautiful. It was a family.

 ** _1959_**

Every Tuesday and Thursday when Shelagh helped set up the community center for clinic, she made sure the neat and orderly intake table faced the door. This was for two reasons: one, so she could greet every patient with a calm smile; and two, so she wouldn't have to gaze at the rows of mothers and babies, and be reminded of what she could not have.

This Thursday was particularly slow, and she found it harder and harder as the day dragged on to ignore the sounds of the mothers with their children. It had only been two weeks since her operation and the doctors' confirmation of her infertility. Shelagh tried not to think about Patrick's face that afternoon. She'd so wanted to see his face when- she took a deep breath and straightened the immaculate rows of patient files. It wasn't to be.

Patrick had insisted that she didn't have to come back to clinic yet if it was too hard for her, but Shelagh didn't know what else to do. Puttering around the flat didn't help, nor did organizing the files in the surgery. She wasn't sure what would.

A dark-haired young woman came through doors, carrying a toddler, followed by an older pregnant woman. Shelagh forced an efficient smile onto her face.

"Hello, Mrs. Warren, Maureen. It's good to see you."

"Good to see you too, Sis - I mean, Mrs. Turner." Maureen blushed slightly. "Sorry."

"It's perfectly all right. I have you just here. If you'll take a seat, Dr. Turner will be with you shortly."

Maureen helped her mother to a chair and Shelagh ticked Mrs. Warren off her list. After the scare with her 25th child - she'd hit her head and gone into premature labor - the doctor had insisted she at least come regularly to clinics. This must be her 27th baby.

Shelagh glanced back, just for a moment, at Maureen and Conchita. They were singing some sort of Spanish nursery rhyme and the baby giggled with each verse and silly face. Shelagh felt, not for the first time that day, the harsh sting of envy. All she'd wanted was one.

Conchita met her gaze for a moment, frowned and said something soft in Spanish.

"She asks if you're all right, Mrs. Turner?" Maureen translated.

Shelagh swallowed back her tears, ashamed at her covetousness. "Just busy, Maureen. I think the doctor's ready for you now."

 ** _1960_**

Shelagh sighed as her daughter's rag doll went flying over the side of the pram for the fifth time in the last twenty minutes.

Normally, Angela was so well-behaved at clinics, but today she did not want to share her mother with anyone. She'd cried, refused to nap and tossed her toys everywhere. Luckily, clinic was slower on Thursdays, so Shelagh could take a break from greeting patients to gently chastise her infant daughter.

"Now, young Miss," she said, setting aside her files and turning toward the pram. "If you keep insisting on tossing your things everywhere, I'll just not give them back to you. How's that?"

Angela reached for her mother, giggling in such a way that Shelagh couldn't help but laugh with her. Who could scold a grinning baby?

"Very well. You win." She lifted the baby out of her pram and onto her lap, which was precisely where Angela had wanted to be all day. Once Shelagh gave her the doll, she was content - for all of five minutes.

A young, dark-haired pregnant woman came through the doors, followed by older woman who looked to be her mother.

"Oh, hello Maureen," Shelagh said as she struggled to keep hold of her wriggling daughter. "Mrs. Warren, how are you both? Feeling all right? "

"Just lovely, Mrs. Turner," Maureen said, stroking her belly. "My mum came with me, is that all right?"

"Of course. If you'll take a seat, I'll call you when a midwife is free."

The two women moved toward the chairs, but Angela, not one to be ignored, threw her doll right at Conchita Warren's feet.

The woman smiled, slow and easy, then picked up the toy and waved it at the child, teasing her and pulling faces. Angela clapped her hands and laughed, glad to be center of attention for a few moments.

Shelagh thanked Mrs. Warren once she had returned the doll. The woman nodded in return and said something else in Spanish.

"She says is this your daughter?" Maureen translated.

Shelagh beamed. "Yes. This is Angela."

Conchita touched the baby's hair briefly. "Lo que es una hermosa nina. Una bendicion."

That gentle look needed no translation, but Maureen provided it anyway.

"She says what a beautiful baby girl. A blessing."

"Yes," Shelagh agreed.


	13. Care

**A/N: An introspective drabble that takes place during Episode 4.1. Others have written similar scenes better, but I thought I'd give it a shot.**

Shelagh Turner carefully maneuvered the bike to a stop in front of 124 Bermondsey Lane, dismounted and leaned it against the side of the building near the stoop. It had been nearly two years since she'd ridden a Nonnatus bicycle, but well...one knew the saying.

Other things were like that too, she mused. You thought you'd forgotten old skills and talents, until one day someone came to you for help, and you cared for them without a thought. It all just came back, like riding a bike.

Oh, her head was fuzzy with fatigue. It was nearly midnight, and it had been a long, wretched day. Those poor children, hungry, beaten and living in horrible conditions. She'd _had_ go with Trixie and Sister Monica Joan to take them to cleansing station. She'd had to find some small way to help.

"How will you get home?" Patrick had asked before they parted ways. He was headed to the hospital to help settle in the youngest of the Teemans. Baby Coral needed antibiotics to deal with an infection and possibly skin grafts to help heal the horrible sores on her body. "Will you be all right?" he said "I can come back and -"

She shook her head, cutting him off. "I'll be fine. Nurse Franklin and Sister Monica Joan need an extra pair of hands." She looked over at Marcy and Jacquetta Teeman, waiting in a corner while their brother Gary wandered around, looking over the various tubs and showers. Jacquetta stared back at her with wide eyes too big for her thin face. Shelagh thought of her own baby daughter, Angela, and how her eyes always followed her around the room.

"Go home," she told her husband. "Get Angela from the neighbors and make sure Tim doesn't -"

"Stay up all hours reading comics?" He grinned wryly, and they shared a soft laugh. "All right." He kissed her cheek. "I'll leave a light on."

And he had, just as she always did when he was called out in the middle of the night. The sight of the sitting room lamp glowing as she entered the flat warmed her, but also brought a lump to her throat. How many others came home to darkness and cold?

She checked on Timothy first and found him fast asleep, with a comic book tucked under his elbow. He looked so long under the blankets. It had been a bittersweet shock the day she'd realized he'd grown taller than her. He wouldn't be a boy for very much longer.

"He's never really had the chance to be a little boy before," Trixie had said about Gary. At the cleansing station, he'd splashed in the tub like he'd never had a good, hot bath in his life, and then given it up to his younger sisters at their first request. Shelagh suspected he'd give up his life for them, if asked. All they had was each other. If they went into separate foster homes - no. She would make more calls if necessary to ensure the Teeman children were placed in a good home, together. The bond between brother and sister was important, and too strong to be brushed aside. Watching Timothy with Angela taught her that every day.

Timothy didn't stir as Shelagh tugged the comic out from under his arm and pulled his blankets up further; he was a heavy sleeper, like Patrick. She smoothed the fringe off his forehead, a gesture he'd squirm away from when awake, and crept out of his room.

They'd only recently moved Angela out of their room and down the hall to the small box room Patrick had been using for a study. Apart from the cot and a rocking chair in the corner, it still didn't look very much like a baby's room; it was too dark and the walls were bare. But after several scrubbings she'd managed to clear out the smell of too many Henleys, and with some paint and new rug, it would be quite nice.

Leaning over the cot, she gently laid a hand on her daughter's chest, feeling her breathe. She'd done this often when Angela had first come to them to reassure herself she was alive and she was theirs. Patrick teased her once or twice about it, but he did the same thing.

How close? How close had Angela come to ending up in a home or worse, neglected, like Baby Coral? Shelagh pressed a soft kiss to her daughter's head, breathing in her soft, clean scent, and gave thanks, to God and to Angela's birth mother, wherever she was. It took courage to give up such a precious gift to someone else, and now what could have been a tragedy was instead joy. More joy than she could ever have imagined two years ago.

Shelagh glanced once more around the room to make sure everything was in order. Yes, a fresh coat of paint would do the trick. Something bright and cheerful - yellow, like a sunflower. She stifled a yawn and walked quietly down the hall.

It was a good thing Patrick hadn't met her at the door, she realized, when she flicked on the light in the bath and saw herself in the small mirror. There were water spots on her dress and a smudge of something on her cheek. Her eyes were red and tired behind her glasses, and the wind from her bike ride had whipped her hair out of its neat chignon. She took it down and brushed it, shuddering as she remembered the fleas and nits she'd picked out of Marcy's hair. There had been so many.

Her hands were dry and chapped, her fingernails chipped from scrubbing and delousing the three children. She looked at them now in wonder. Had she grown so soft, sitting behind a desk, being a doctor's wife?

Not that being a wife and mother was easy work. There were days when Angela wouldn't settle, and Timothy wore out her patience with his messes. She'd had to learn how to be a mother to him, while also letting him grow up. She'd had to learn Patrick as well, how to love him even when he tried to close himself off to her, and how to open herself up to his love as well.

It was hard work, but it was never harsh. She had seen harsh tonight, and if she looked worse for the wear because of it, it was because she'd done something to try to smooth that harshness away, if only for a little while.

She washed her face and hands, cleaned her teeth and switched out the light in the bath before padding down the hall to their bedroom. The lamp on her side of the bed was switched on, and Shelagh smiled at the sight it illuminated.

Patrick had fallen asleep sitting up, stretched out in his dressing gown on her side of the bed, his head nodding against his chest and an old copy of The Lancet discarded on his lap.

When they'd first married, and her husband had been called out late, Shelagh had often sat up waiting for him to come home, until he pointed out that there was no reason for both of them to lose sleep just because some babies took all night in coming.

So now, before she went to bed, she'd make sure there was a plate of something in the kitchen, in case he came home hungry, put his pajamas in the chair in the corner, and if it was a cold night, tuck a hot water bottle under the blankets. She was a light sleeper and she'd wake up when he came home. She'd make him tea or Horlicks, check on Angela, and then fall back asleep in a bed that was much warmer now that he was there.

She'd be glad of the warmth tonight, she thought as she quickly disrobed and pulled on her nightdress. She'd just finished doing up the buttons when Patrick suddenly snorted and awoke.

"Oh," he said, a drowsy smile blossoming across his face. "You're home."

"You'll get a sore back sleeping like that."

Patrick's grin turned sheepish and he rubbed his neck. "I was waiting up for you. How are the Teemans?"

She picked up the bottle of hand lotion off her vanity and poured a small amount into her palm. "Clean, now. And better fed than they've ever been in their lives, I'd imagine, thanks to Sister Monica Joan." She tried to laugh, but it came out hollow, clutched around a sob.

"Shelagh -"

She shook her head. "I'm all right, Patrick." She smoothed the lotion between her fingers and thought about Marcy and Jacquetta, how they hadn't even flinched as she and Trixie rubbed ointment into the sores and bruises that mapped their tiny bodies. They'd learned not to cry.

She cleared the tears out of her throat. "How was Coral?"

"They've given her antibiotics to help clear the infections first. They're going to wait a day or two, see if her sores heal on their own before trying skin grafts." He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture she recognized as an effort to stave off anger and frustration. She went to soothe him, but was interrupted by Angela's wails down the hall.

Patrick rose. "I'll settle her. You rest. I kept your side warm."

She didn't protest; she sensed he probably needed to cuddle Angela more than she did, after treating Baby Coral. How could someone ignore a child like that? How could their mother just leave them all, dirty and helpless and starved in that flat?

She climbed into bed and tried to read for a while. But her eyes were too tired and the words blurred. In her mind, she still saw their tiny bruised bodies before her. Had she done enough? Was there more she could do?

She took off her glasses and turned over, exhausted and agitated. Anger was no good. Anger didn't change anything.

Only love could do that.

She'd heard Sister Julienne say it many times before, and she knew its truth firsthand. Love had transformed her own life in so many ways.

Even tonight, the little love and care she and Trixie had been able to give the Teeman children had transformed them. They had made them clean and warm, healthier with full stomachs, and smiles on their faces. More love - once they found a permanent home - might do even more.

But there were always others. The patients who could barely scrap together money for food, much less medicines. The poor and the elderly who couldn't make it to a doctor and often slipped through the cracks of paperwork and administration. And always mothers. New ones, who came in nervous and full of questions about childbirth they were too scared to ask. Mothers already caring for several young children who could barely make time for appointments. Mothers who had lost babies before they'd even had a chance to hold them, like Mrs. Wimbush. She'd only been seven months pregnant when she came into the surgery with contractions. She clutched Shelagh's hand so hard during her examination her fingers went numb.

"I can't have her now," she insisted, her voice wavy with tears. "It's too early. I - I have to keep her safe."

Shelagh adjusted the blanket to cover the woman's abdomen. "Doctor will do everything he can." She met Mrs. Wimbush's fear-filled eyes and squeezed her hand. " _We_ will do everything we can to make sure you and baby are well."

Why had she'd said _we_? She'd hadn't delivered a baby or cared for a patient in nearly two years. Most of what she did at the surgery and clinics was paperwork and scheduling appointments, along with the occasional lecture about proper feeding and care for baby. She'd retired from nursing and midwifery.

But sometimes, like tonight, she missed it. She could still recite the steps for preparing a mother for birth in her sleep. She'd known how to help Victor McKenty when he started fitting in the street. And caring for the Teeman children tonight had come to her so easily. It had felt good, to smooth the hurt and harshness away; to help those who really needed it.

She wanted more - to do more. Could she ask for that? Would Patrick understand? They'd struggled so much over the past year, and they'd only just reached a comfortable happiness. Timothy was well, Angela was a thriving five-month old and she felt closer than ever to Patrick.

Would she upend all that by asking for this? She didn't want to lose what they had built, but she didn't know if she could continue to stand by, let her nursing skills atrophy, and leave the help to others. No, she knew she couldn't.

She heard the bedroom door creak open and Patrick's footsteps padding back in. She turned, and he smiled at. He'd brought her a cup of tea.

"There's no need for that," she said, sitting up.

He set the tea cup on the bedside table. "You do it for me. Every time I get called out at night."

And there it was. He cared for her, just as she cared for him. Yes, she could tell him how she felt. They'd always find a way.


	14. In the Mirror

**_A/N: Inspired by Sister Bernadette's moment in the mirror in Episode 1.4._**

Sister Bernadette hadn't meant to eavesdrop. She'd only been passing through the chilly main hall of the convent on her way to the kitchen when she overheard rock 'n' roll coming from one of the nurse's rooms, and she stopped a moment to listen to the music. It was impossible not to hear the conversation too.

"Have you ever thought about setting your hair, Cynthia?" she heard Trixie say. "It might look quite lovely with a bit of curl in it."

"Oh no," the quiet nurse responded. "Too many pins - I wouldn't sleep a wink. My hair is too thin to hold a curl anyway."

"Mater once made me get a permanent wave, before my coming out ball," Chummy said. "The trouble was, I came out looking like Great-Aunt Tilly's poodle, dressed into much crinoline."

More giggles and then Jenny's voice. "Well, you don't look like a poodle tonight. I'd die for your complexion. Let's just try a little mascara, and then you'll be done."

Sister Bernadette crept closer and peered through the crack in the door. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke and hair lacquer drifted toward her. She could see Chummy and Jenny's profiles in the vanity mirror, and Trixie's back as she reclined on the bed nearby; Cynthia must be seated elsewhere. Tiny bottles of make-up, nail lacquer and other beauty potions, mysterious to her, were scattered on the dresser, along with a drinking glass and a bottle she was sure contained something much stronger than water.

"There," Jenny said, flourishing a tiny brush near Chummy's eyes, then putting it aside. "Glasses on, and take a look."

Sister Bernadette watched as the tall nurse slipped her glasses back on her nose. She blinked, once, twice in astonishment, and a shy smile blossomed on her face.

"Goodness," she said softly. "I look quite pretty."

Trixie slid off the bed and took her friend's arm. "Of course you do." She winked saucily at their joined reflections. "Peter won't know what hit him."

Another burst of giggles, the glass was filled and passed around, and the record player turned up slightly louder, nearly overpowering the ringing sound of the convent's doorbell.

Sister Bernadette left to answer it. It was Jenny's gentleman friend. She left him in the front hall and returned to the nurse's room.

At her knock, the music came to a halt with a screech of the record needle, and she could hear the distinct clink of glasses being secreted away before the door was opened. All of the nurses stood before her, like a row of colorful butterflies, fluttering with excitement.

"There's a gentleman at the door. Oh, you all look very nice. Have a lovely evening."

Later, after the girls had left, trailing clouds of laughter and perfume, Sister Bernadette returned to her own room. She possessed only a small mirror, and only used it to make sure her veil was straight every morning. The process took less than a minute.

Now, she stared at her reflection for much longer than that, wondering and assessing.

Before she could question it, she removed her veil and took off the cap covering her hair. Without the wimple, she already looked like a different person: her face pale and unadorned, with not quite brown, not quite blonde hair.

She took out the clip holding it back, felt the whisper of it falling against her neck and combed her fingers through the strands. She rarely looked at or touched her hair, washing it once a week and twisting it back into a bun while it was still damp. It was thin, but soft, she was pleased to note.

She removed her glasses, and suddenly her late mother's face stared back at her - goodness, when had that happened? She ran her fingers through her hair again, combing it over one shoulder as she'd seen her do once, and remembered a time when staring into a mirror and admiring one's appearance was not forbidden.

Quite pretty, she thought. I am quite pretty.

* * *

Shelagh threw her comb down on the dresser in frustration and sighed at her reflection in the mirror. She might as well just accept it - she had no idea what she was doing.

There was no logical reason for her to be this nervous. It was only dinner. She'd eaten with him dozens of times before in their previous lives. There'd been rushed cups of tea after clinic, Sunday meals with Timothy on the housekeeper's day off, holiday feasts every Christmas.

But all of those times _had_ been different. Then, she'd been shrouded in the safety of the habit and only one of a dozen nurses and nuns at the table. They barely spoke to one another most times.

Tonight, it would be just her and him. Shelagh and Patrick. She was still getting used to hearing her old name again, but she'd already decided it sounded best from his lips. Two syllables, spoken tenderly, and she felt loved.

He'd be here in less than ten minutes - well, more like fifteen, knowing Patrick - to take her to dinner. It would be their first true date, without Timothy acting as a pint-sized chaperone, and Shelagh's first date _ever_ , at the tender age of 32. She'd been thrilled when he'd asked her and delighted in the way he'd grinned in astonishment when she'd said yes. What else would she say? She wanted to spend every moment of her life with him.

But when the appointed evening arrived a few days later, all of her excitement dissolved into anxiety over the realization that she was hopelessly out of her depth.

Shelagh had felt that way nearly every day, about one small thing or another, since she'd signed the papers to leave the order. She hadn't handled money for nearly ten years, and everything she needed to start over seemed so expensive. Going clothes shopping had been a nightmare. She'd tried to summon up some of the confidence she always saw Jenny and Trixie exhibit when it came to fashion, but in the end, she lost her nerve and chose the first four dresses that fit her properly.

In her heart of hearts, she knew this was the right path for her, but it was getting rather frustrating, being lost all the time in a place where she used to know exactly where she was. Only her afternoons with Timothy, a few short but lovely evenings with Patrick and church service on Sunday had provided any semblance of comfort and familiarity.

But Patrick and Timothy couldn't help her now.

She fingered the material of the outfit she wore, a simple dress patterned with grey and blue flowers, almost like storm clouds. It felt more suitable for church rather than a date, but out of the few dresses she had - all of them laid out on the bed - it was the nicest. She'd had better luck shoe shopping, and easily found a pair of modest heels to replace her utility shoes, though she still felt a little wobbly in them. She traversed the length of the room slowly, so she could see all of herself in the mirror that hung on the back of the door.

Shelagh pursed her lips in disappointment. She looked like a pleasant, well-dressed young woman. But she wanted to look pretty. She wanted to look the way Patrick made her feel when he looked at her - like she was the sun, and he would go blind rather than take his eyes from her.

It was definitely her hair, she decided. She just didn't know what to do with it. She'd never been to the hairdressers. She'd heard the nurses talk about different styles and cuts, treatments that could curl, color or straighten, elixirs to make it grow and creams to make it shine. She'd seen and been offered several hair treatments to try by the saleswomen she met in the shops, but had refused them all. She wouldn't know what to do with all those products anyway.

It was just easier to twist her hair up and out of the way. That was how she'd done it now, just like she'd done every Saturday after her bath for ten years. A part of her longed to continue the ritual, cover her head again, and hide in her room for the night.

You didn't leave so you could hide, Shelagh reminded herself. You left to live a new life. This is just a tiny part of it. You just have to figure it out.

She gazed at her reflection in the mirror again, considering and assessing. Carefully, she tugged the pins out of her hair one by one, fluffing the strands out at the roots as they floated down. Then she took up the brush again, parted her hair on one side and combed through it until the soft waves shone gold in the late afternoon light. She thought about Patrick. She thought about how handsome he'd looked when he come by the boarding house to ask her to dinner and the brief, warm press of his lips on her hand that she'd carried through the days like a promise. She thought about what was to come and all her hopes for the future - their future - and she didn't feel lost at all.

A short time later, there was a knock on her door. It was her landlady, Mrs. Fenning.

"I believe there's a gentleman downstairs to see you. Oh, don't you look lovely?" she said, resting her hands on her ample hips as she surveyed Shelagh's outfit. "That color is just right with your hair. I can never wear blue. Not since my hair went grey. Washes me out. But you look a right picture."

Shelagh felt herself blushing at the compliments. "Thank you, Mrs. Fenning."

"Well, don't keep a fella waiting. I don't need him wearing a hole through my good carpets with his pacing about."

Mrs. Fenning watched Shelagh practically float down the stairs to the nervous doctor, who stopped pacing the moment he saw her.

The landlady chuckled softly to herself. "You'd never know she used to be a nun."


	15. Handwriting Exercises

Warmth. Fingers brushing lightly along her arm. The wan light of the dawn piercing her eyelids, and finally, Patrick's voice, thick with sleep, in her ear.

"Morning."

She shivered. "That tickles. What are you doing?"

"Handwriting exercises," he said, and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

She laughed into her pillow, remembering their teasing conversation the day before, and rolled to face him. "It's rather early for that, don't you think?"

His hand traveled down her side. "You said I needed practice," he said, tracing the curve of her hip through her nightdress. "You said that my handwriting needed improvement."

"Did I?" She kissed him almost leisurely, one hand creeping into his hair. She was by far no expert in this area, and she had no one to compare Patrick to, but improving things anymore seemed nearly impossible.

However, she wasn't about to object to, well… _practicing_. She tugged him closer and her hand slid down the soft cotton collar of his pajama top to undo the first button.

His fingers slipped under her nightdress and along the inside of her thigh in light, teasing strokes. "What are you writing?" she murmured, grinning against his lips. "Prescriptions?

"No." His hand moved higher and a wave of heat washed over her body. She gasped and pulled away, trying to gain some equilibrium, but it was difficult. The way Patrick stared at her made her feel like she wasn't wearing anything at all. He stared like he could see past all the layers of blankets, her nightdress and possibly even her skin, down to the desires she had kept secret for so long.

And he loved what he saw.

No need for hiding anymore, she thought, smiling. She lazily traced an "S" on his chest, marking him as hers, and undid a second button. "Letters?" A third and fourth button were easily undone, and she slipped her hand inside the pajama top, fingers brushing over warm skin. His eyes closed.

"Something like that," he said, his voice a husky whisper.

She pressed her lips to his neck in small, sweet kisses and his hands tightened around her waist. "To whom?" she breathed in his ear.

Suddenly she was on her back, Patrick looming over her, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress. "My wife," he growled before giving her a searing kiss. Shelagh responded in kind, opening to him, her tongue lightly stroking his as she ran both hands under his shirt to knead the muscles of his back and shoulders. Teasing Patrick could be fun, she thought as she wound one leg around his hip, but this…this was infinitely better.

But then he pulled away and sat up. She groaned at the loss of contact, tugging at his pajama top to bring him closer, and he smirked.

"Don't you want to know what's in them? The letters?" His fingers traveled a familiar path up her legs, tickling behind her knees, stroking the backs of her thighs.

Enough. She sat up, pulled her nightdress over her head and off in one swift motion and tossed it to the floor. "I think I can guess," she said as she wrapped herself around him. "I'm getting rather good at deciphering your terrible penmanship."


	16. A woman in uniform

They were walking back to the car in the dark, husband and wife, doctor and nurse, their bodies tired but their minds invigorated by the victory of lives saved, when he brought it up.

"So…new dress, _Nurse_ Turner?"

Shelagh laughed. After his gobsmacked look of pride at the surgery, she'd been wondering if Patrick would ask about the change in her appearance. "It's only temporary. Patients wanted to be treated by trained nurse who actually looked like a trained nurse, so Sister Julienne let me borrow this." She caught his eye and returned his cheeky grin. "Do you like it?"

Patrick took a step back to survey her, his eyes glittering, then glanced down the empty road. He stepped close, pressed her back against the side of the car and kissed her.

"Patrick," she gasped. "I'm in uniform!"

"Yes," he breathed, his hands tracing teasing circles low on her hips. "A rather fetching one, too."

She kissed him again, not caring for once if anyone saw them, lost in the feeling of his long body against hers. She'd missed him. She'd never thought she could miss him as much as she had during their estrangement after the adoption interview, or even before, at the sanatorium, when all she had were his letters. But she had missed him, and she'd worried that he'd gone to a dark place where love couldn't reach.

But love, she had been reminded, always stretched as far as it was needed, across miles and misty roads, through heartaches and hardships, just as long as you kept offering it. So she kissed him sweetly, and full of longing and relief, thankful that everything had been set to rights again.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better," Shelagh said, after she'd caught her breath. She smoothed an errant lock of dark hair off his forehead and rested her hand on his cheek. "I was worried, for a while."

"I know." He turned his head slightly, kissed her palm. "I was, too."

"You must let me know, Patrick, if you ever feel -"

"I will." His soft smile and the love in his dark eyes were as good as any promise.

"You're a good doctor. You care so much. And I don't like to see you exhaust yourself like you did this week." She grasped his hands in hers, running her thumbs across his knuckles. "So, in the future, if we get too busy and you need help, I can step in, see to some of the patients, act as a nurse. I don't mind."

Patrick's smile turned roguish again. "Acting Nurse Turner? Does this outfit come with that title?"

Shelagh rolled her eyes. "What is it about this uniform? Should I be worried?"

He laughed. "It's not the uniform, Shelagh. It's you. You were - you are -" he gave a little contented sigh. "Amazing. You always amaze me."

The way he looked at her - like they were on that road once more and he couldn't quite believe they'd found each other - brought a lump to her throat and made her tremble all over, and all she could do was embrace him again. "Oh, Patrick."

"Home?" he murmured after a moment.

She pulled back and nodded, her eyes shining.

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, their own silent way of 'I love you,' and then released her. She felt the loss of his warmth keenly, despite the summer heat. Well, home wasn't far, she thought, and got in the car.

"I will admit," Patrick said as he drove down the main road. "When you mentioned missing nursing, I wondered, once or twice, what you might look like in one of those uniforms."

She raised an eyebrow. "Only once or twice?"

Patrick chuckled sheepishly. "Tell me, does Nurse Turner ever make house calls?"

Shelagh blushed at his implication but grinned, Cheshire cat-like. She was rather enjoying this game. "Oh, I'm afraid not," she said lightly. "But if you are still feeling poorly, I've heard your wife is a trained nurse."

"Indeed she is. One of the most accomplished I know." He pulled the car to a stop in front of the flat and turned to her, stretching one arm across the back of her seat. "Well then, what does my wife recommend?"

She looked him straight in the eye and smiled ever so slightly. "Bed rest, dear. Lots of bed rest."


	17. That Feeling in the Moonlight

**A/N: A one-shot, inspired by this quote from an "interview" with Sister Bernadette in the Call the Midwife Series companion.**

 _ **"As midwives we often receive little gifts from grateful patients, and not long ago I was given a record of Perry Como singing 'Ave Maria'. We listened to it during recreation and everyone thought it very nice indeed. The next day I came into the parlour and caught Sister Monica Joan dancing to the b-side, which was a rather jaunty song called 'Do You Ever Get That Feeling in the Moonlight?'"**_

Sister Bernadette shut the door to her cell and slipped quietly down the chilly hallway to the bath, washbag and towels in hand. _Finally_. There weren't many luxuries afforded to her in the convent, but one could always depend on tea, cake and a hot bath once a week. And though she wouldn't admit it to anyone, she'd been looking forward to this bath since luncheon. All of her home visits had run long today, and clinic had run even longer. It seemed half the women in Poplar were due to give birth in the next two months.

Down the hall, she could hear the faint laughter of the nurses in the sitting room, and the sound of the record player, a little louder than usual. If Sister Evangelina were here, she would bark at them to turn it down, but both she and Sister Julienne were out on calls.

 _Let them have their fun_ , she thought. _They were young_. Sometimes, she'd wished – only once or twice, when her mind wandered to 'what ifs' – that she could join them.

But not tonight. She shut the door to the bath softly behind her, then rolled up her extra towel and stuffed it along the crack at the bottom, as was her custom. She turned on the taps and began to disrobe, avoiding the small mirror above the sink. She could still hear the music faintly as she undressed, but hopefully, they wouldn't be able to hear her sing along.

 _You are my special angel_

 _Sent from up above_

 _The Lord smiled down on me_

 _And sent an angel to love_

She'd heard Chummy humming the song along with the wireless as they tidied up after clinic earlier that day. She was in the kitchen, washing up the remaining teacups while the nurses put away the screens and folding chairs.

"Someone's chipper," she heard Trixie tease. "I take it your night with Peter went well?"

"Quite," she heard Chummy reply, quietly pleased. There was a burst of knowing giggles from the other nurses that faded as they exited the hall, leaving her alone, again.

She turned off the tap and slid into the bath. Why did she always seem to feel that way recently - alone? Separate from the nurses and more full of doubts than her fellow Sisters. She'd never felt this way before, not since she'd joined Nonnatus ten years earlier. Then, she'd been grateful to find a home and a family with the Sisters, as well as a place where she could do good, where she felt useful. Most day, it still felt like home and a place where she was useful - but was it what she was supposed to be doing? Why this restlessness?

The last time she'd felt this way, she'd left Scotland. Perhaps it was time to leave Poplar.

She began to wash, trying to scrub such thoughts out of her head, and her mind drifted to her last patient of the day, Maureen Ramsey. A mother of four with a fifth on the way, she and Dr. Turner had entered the flat to find her on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor, despite being eight months pregnant.

"Maureen!" she exclaimed. She and the doctor rushed to help the woman up and onto the sofa in the sitting room.

"Thank you, love," the woman said with breathless sigh, settling back into the cushions. "I bent down to scrub a little spot on the floor and couldn't quite make it back up, so I figured I'd just clean the whole of it!"

"Keeping a tidy house for baby is important, but so is rest," the doctor scolded. "And I don't like the looks of those ankles."

Maureen lifted one swollen ankle and grimaced. "Oh, they always get like that about now. Every baby. Don't they, Sister?" she said, nodding toward her. "Sister Bernadette delivered all four of my babies. Wouldn't have nobody else."

The doctor grinned at her. "A wise choice."

She felt herself blush and looked away, embarrassed. "Any headaches or nausea, Maureen?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm just bloomin' tired all the time, and a little breathless." She let out a long sigh and ran her hands over her expanding belly. "None of the others took it out of me like this."

Sister Bernadette exchanged a worried look with the doctor. "We'd still like to do some tests," he said.

Maureen's eyes filled with fear. "Tests? What kind of tests?"

"Nothing drastic, Maureen," she said quickly to comfort the woman. "We just want to make sure both you and baby are well. Come on, I'll help you to the toilet."

Thankfully, the tests for preeclampsia came back clear and she and the doctor finished up their examination just as Maureen's husband, Joe, came home. He frowned in concern when he saw them there.

"Mo? Everything all right?"

"Fine, love. The doctor and the sister are just here for look in."

Joe looked to Dr. Turner for confirmation. "Doc?"

"Everything is just as it should be, Mr. Ramsey. Your wife just needs rest, so no more scrubbing floors," he said sternly.

"Maureen, were you scrubbing them floors again?" He came over to the sofa and rested his hands on her shoulders, kneading the sore muscles there. "I told you, love, there's no need for that. We can get one of the girls to do it."

"I can't sit all day, Joe." She let out a little moan of pleasure. "Oh, but I will sit right now. That feels lovely - a little lower though."

Joe grinned at the doctor and Sister Bernadette. "This is why she keeps me around. Magic hands, she says."

"Oh, stop it," Maureen said, laughing, turning bright red. "Not in front of the Sister."

Even now, the image of Joe Ramsey gently caring for his wife stayed with her in a different way than it had before. There was such love in that house, in the way Jo and Maureen looked at each other, in their concern for one another and for their children. She admired it, and yet watching them, that she could feel that familiar feeling of restlessness surfacing again. She was glad to leave the flat.

"Sister? Are you all right?" The doctor gazed down at her, his weathered face creased in concern. His tie was askew and she felt a sudden itch to straighten it.

"Perfectly well," she said curtly, clenching her fingers at her side. "Thank you again, doctor, for coming." She hopped back on her bike and pedaled away, taking unusual care not to look back. Looking back wouldn't help the feeling that she was out of place.

She just needed a rest, she thought now, slipping further down into the warm water, feeling it ease her aching back and shoulders. A brief respite at the Mother House, to reflect and pray and remember why she was here. Then the longing for...something she couldn't place would fade.

There was silence as the record changed and then the bright sound of violins. Sister Bernadette chuckled, her quiet laugh echoing slightly off the tile. The Sisters had been given this Perry Como record by mistake. One side had a beautiful rendition of _Ave Maria_ , sweet and gentle. Even Sister Evangelina enjoyed it every now and again.

But Sister Monica Joan preferred the jauntier B-side song. Sister Bernadette had found her dancing to it once in the sitting room. She hadn't even stopped when she'd spotted her but instead beckoned her to join in.

"No," she'd refused quietly. "I'm not much for dancing."

The elder nun scoffed at her. " _Let them praise His name with dancing, making melody to Him with tambourine and lyre_!"

She giggled now to think of the elder nun twirling along with the nurses to the music, and hummed along, her wriggling toes sending ripples through the warm water.

 _Did you ever get that feeling in the moonlight?_

 _The wonderful feeling that you want to be kissed._

 _You're strolling through the park, the stars so bright above_

 _You'd love to love somebody, but there's nobody there to love_

 _Did you ever get that longing on a June night?_

 _That wonderful longing you can never resist?_

 _Did you ever get that feeling in the moonlight?_

 _That feeling that says you want to be kissed?_

She could feel the tension leeching out of her muscles and exhaustion creeping in. She closed her eyes, letting the water and the music wash over her, freeing her mind to wander.

What _was_ that feeling in the moonlight? Was it the way she felt, looking at Joe and Maureen Ramsey? How did it feel, to love someone like that? There was love in the convent, of course, but also silence, sometimes, and distance.

 _Did you ever get that longing on a June night?_

 _That wonderful longing you can never resist?_

She craved touch and something of her own.

 _Did you ever get that feeling in the moonlight?_

Hands - his hands, examining every patient, helping Mrs. Ramsey to the sofa, passing instruments back and forth, twitching nervously at his side, fiddling with his tie. Always in motion, but always so careful.

 _That feeling that says you want to be..._

He worked so hard all the time and wore his cares so heavily. But sometimes he smiled. When he talked about his son. When he looked at her. She had to fight not to stare sometimes. If only she could reach out and -

 _...kissed?_

Her eyes shot open and she sat up quickly, splashing water over the sides of the tub. The cold shocked her skin into goosebumps, and she wrapped her arms around herself, ashamed.

To be thinking of the doctor, an esteemed colleague, in that way would be bad enough if she were just a nurse. But she was one of the Sisters of Saint Raymond Nonnatus. She shouldn't be thinking about anyone that way. If anyone ever knew - if he ever knew.

She felt herself flush again and climbed out of the bath. She was tired, she thought as she wrapped a towel around her middle, and let her mind wander too far; that was all. Horlicks, a good night's rest, and prayer - then she would know her way.

She dried herself off quickly, threw on her robe and twisted her hair up in a towel; she'd dress in her room. She scurried down the hall, the jaunty music making her head pound.

"Please turn the music down, Nurse Franklin," she snapped as she passed the sitting room. "The Great Silence will begin soon."


	18. May the Good Lord Bless and Keep You

The moon shown bright through the tiny window of her room. The night sky never looked like this in Poplar - the smog and the city lights muted the brilliance of nature - but out here, in the countryside, it was the clearest thing. A luminous beacon that made her aching, feverish head throb. She longed for a foggier moon, a more shrouded night. The moon of home.

Ill again, Sister Bernadette rested her head against the cool tile of the bath, thankful for that minor relief. The TB treatments made her feel nauseated and tired, and yet unable to sleep. She was so used to being active, not just physically, but mentally, too, and not being so now made her restless.

In Poplar, her mind had always been able to find some occupation. No matter the season, there was much to do - figuring out the best care for a nervous mother, teaching the younger midwives how to handle a breech birth, searching and searching until she'd found the proper cure to make a patient well again.

Sometimes she wondered if _she'd_ ever be well again, and when she was - what then? Before she'd come to St. Anne's for treatment, she'd thought it was time for her to leave Poplar, but now that she had been forced to leave, she missed it desperately.

So if she recovered, what then?

The letters from her fellow Sisters and the nurses provided brief distractions from this question, but they spoke only of the mundane goings on at the convent and trivial gossip. There was nothing in them to occupy her mind, no problems for her to solve. _Rest_ , they told her. _It's all being taken care of. Don't worry._

But today, another letter had come. From him.

She'd been in the corner of the common area, resting and idly listening to a record with the other patients. She'd heard the song before, she thought, but she had never taken the time to really listen. The voice singing was deep, reverent and calm, like a prayer.

 _May the good Lord bless and keep you  
Whether near or far away  
May you find that long awaited  
Golden day today._

 _May your troubles all be small ones  
And your fortunes ten times ten  
May the good Lord bless and keep you  
Till we meet again._

"Lovely, isn't it, Sister?"

She opened her eyes. Nurse Peters approached, holding a small stack of post.

"Yes," she said, with a smile. "Who is it? Do you know?"

The nurse frowned. "What this? Oh, this is an old one. Jim Reeves, I think." She held out an envelope. "Some post for you today. Looks like a new one." She winked, and then strode off to deliver mail to the others on the ward.

Sister Bernadette glanced at the handwriting and felt her heart skip in her chest. A letter from Dr. Turner? A giddy grin bloomed across her face and she had her finger under the envelope flap, eager to tear it open and read, before she stopped herself.

It was wrong that she should feel like this from just a letter. It had been wrong in Poplar and it would be even more wrong now, to give him and herself even a shred of hope for a happy outcome.

This was the path she had chosen, and she must follow it until its end.

But she kept the letter. She could see it now, sticking out of the pocket of her dressing gown hanging on the door. Perhaps she would read it when she felt stronger. When she knew where the path led.

It was kind of him to write, and exactly like him, too. She could imagine what the letter might say. Unlike the letters from the nuns and nurses, it would probably be full of talk about his latest patients or new treatments she might find interesting. He'd write about Timothy, too, of course. How were his violin lessons progressing? What were his latest interests? Before she'd left, he'd been fascinated by the ancient Egyptians, but he might be studying something completely different now. He was growing up so quickly.

The letter might finish with wishes for her speedy recovery and return to Poplar. They'd parted as friends, she thought. She hoped. She prayed, every day.

The moon had gone behind a cloud now, and the aching in her head eased. She made her way back to bed, her body and mind finally exhausted enough for sleep, and crawled under the quilt. She drifted off to sleep, her last thoughts a prayer.

 _May the good Lord bless and keep you  
Whether near or far away  
May you find that long awaited  
Golden day today._

 _May your troubles all be small ones  
And your fortunes ten times ten  
May the good Lord bless and keep you  
Till we meet again._

* * *

She'd been busy, planning the wedding and helping the Sisters find a new home, and reached the ward too late that day, long past visiting hours. The matron let her in anyway. After that first mistake on the day of Timothy's polio diagnosis, she and Patrick spoke with the hospital staff and since then, no one else had dared stand in Shelagh Mannion's way.

Timothy was already asleep, so she left the school books and a new puzzle on his bedside table and began collecting the discarded comics and straightening his blankets. She hoped he'd have a restful night. His physical therapy tired him out, but the pain in his weakened muscles also frequently woke him, making good sleep elusive. She could see the dark circles under his eyes, and he still looked too pale.

But he was alive and breathing, and the doctors assured her and Patrick he was progressing well. That was more than enough to be thankful for.

She watched him sleep for a few moments more, to reassure herself, and then bent to grab her pocketbook. She'd visit earlier tomorrow, and maybe even be able to help him during his physical therapy.

"Shelagh?"

She looked up at the sound of his sleep-softened whisper. "Shh," she hushed him. "It's all right. Go back to sleep. I'll be back in the morning, I promise."

A frown crossed his thin face. "You were humming."

"Was I?" She hadn't noticed; she'd been busy tidying up. She did hum sometimes when she worked. In the convent, it had usually been bits of Evensong. But she couldn't recall what she'd been humming just now. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"S'all right. It was nice," he said, with a wide yawn. "Sing some more."

"You need your rest."

He pouted. "Please? It'll help me sleep."

It was hard to turn him down when he looked so pitiful and still so weak. Her little boy.

She scooted her chair closer to his bed. "All right. Close your eyes."

Softly, so only he could hear, she sang the same song and prayer she'd said for him and Patrick every night she was away.

 _May the good Lord bless and keep you  
Whether near or far away  
May you find that long awaited  
Golden day today._

 _May your troubles all be small ones  
And your fortunes ten times ten  
May the good Lord bless and keep you  
Till we meet again._

* * *

The reedy cry of a newborn broke through the night and Shelagh jolted out of sleep a third time. _Angela._

Next to her, Patrick groaned and stretched. "Shelagh?"

"I'll get her." She slipped out of bed and moved toward the cot in the corner of the room, where her daughter - _her daughter_ , she still marveled at the phrase - only a week old, lay. Angela's tiny, red face scrunched up with tears for reasons Shelagh couldn't fathom, and her heart crumbled.

"Shhh," she hushed her, scooping her up and cradling her to her chest. "It's all right. It will be all right. What's wrong? Hmm?" Shelagh glanced back at Patrick, already fast asleep again and then down at Angela whimpering in her arms. "Come on. We'll let Daddy rest."

Shelagh quietly let herself out of the bedroom and swayed toward the sitting room, humming as she rocked Angela. Her mind ran through the reasons for her daughter's distress; she'd been fed only an hour ago, and her nappy was dry, but still she cried.

"You just want to be held, don't you? That's all you want, isn't it?" She settled down on the sofa, the autumn moon through the curtains providing just enough light for her to see her child's face. After a few moments, Angela's cries softened into teary snuffles and her wide, dark eyes opened and fixed on her mother. Shelagh's breath caught in her throat and she traced the downy blonde hair.

"You've had quite a week, haven't you? So many new people and places."

The first day, the day they'd brought Angela home, had been a whirlwind, and even though Shelagh had been exhausted, she'd been too enamored with her new daughter to sleep much. Angela must have been exhausted too, for she only woke a few times to be fed and changed, then drifted back to sleep. A little angel, just like her name.

But then today, she only been restless, whimpering when she was held, crying when they put her down. She and Patrick had spent most of the day passing her back and forth, each trying some new way to quiet her. Even Timothy tried to help, but when Angela's crying stretched into the afternoon, Patrick pushed him outdoors and told him to go play.

"She's been moved around so much in such a short time, Patrick. From the hospital to the children's home to here," Shelagh said, during a brief moment of peace after Angela finally dozed off for a nap. "All these new faces - poor wee thing probably doesn't know where she is." A frown crossed her face. "We're strangers to her."

"Not for long," he reassured her. "Give it time. It's a new life for her too. She'll figure it out - just like her mother."

 _"I'm your mummy,"_ Shelagh would repeat to Angela throughout the day, like a prayer. _And this is Daddy and over there is Timmy, your brother. And we love you, so, so much._ _We wanted you for so long._ Sometimes it didn't help; Angela would just keep crying until Shelagh thought she might burst into tears herself. But every once in a while, Angela would go quiet at the sound of her mother's voice and stare back at her, fascinated. _We're a family. This is where you belong._

She could feel her daughter's tiny body tensing again, preparing for another good cry, so she stood and shifted her. The moon was probably too bright in her face. She began swaying around the sitting room again, almost like a dance.

Shelagh smiled softly - had it really only been a week ago when she and Patrick danced in each other arms around this room? They'd talked about adoption and plans for a new child then, but only in the abstract. It hadn't seemed real until she'd stood outside the door of the children's ward, her heart beating in her ears. All the days before that - her and Patrick's argument and their reconciliation - seemed like another life now. But she'd no doubt there would be more love and more dancing to come in future.

She began humming, the first song that came to mind.

 _May the good Lord bless and keep you  
Whether near or far away  
May you find that long awaited  
Golden day today._

 _May your troubles all be small ones  
And your fortunes ten times ten  
May the good Lord bless and keep you  
Till we meet again._

Angela's cries tapered off, she buried her face into her mother's neck and finally, slept. Shelagh breathed a sigh of relief.

"Jim Reeves. Perfect."

* * *

Shelagh stood over the cot, tense and watching, counting each breath the baby took. Her pulse was steady, but she wouldn't eat, and her body - well, like Patrick said, such a disfigurement couldn't only be external. She would slip away. It was only a matter of time.

Poor wee thing. How could this happen?

When she'd first saw the child, she'd been so shocked, her first and only instinct had been to shield the mother from seeing the baby. To protect them both by keeping them apart.

But now she wondered if she hadn't been wrong in that. Every mother deserved the right to see her child and this baby most likely wouldn't live to see the morning. Shouldn't they be able to spend the few hours they had together?

If something so terrible had happened to Angela or Timothy, she would have wanted - she would have demanded - to see them. She would not let them be alone or feel unloved.

There were protocols the nurses followed in the maternity home, in regard to the infants, to prevent coddling or favoritism. It wouldn't do to get too attached to a patient. But Shelagh Turner was also a mother, and that part of her longed to hold the tiny girl and apologize.

 _I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry._

The baby began to fuss a little and Shelagh reached out a hand to cover its tiny body. She'd prayed all the prayers she knew and thought of all the possible scientific reasons - hard, awful reasons - that this could happen. Her frayed and exhausted mind felt empty, as it often had when Angela was still very young, and she'd been up at all hours caring for her. She found herself humming one of the songs she used to sing then as a lullaby. It was all she could offer now.

 _May the good Lord bless and keep you  
Whether near or far away  
May you find that long awaited  
Golden day today._

 _May your troubles all be small ones  
And your fortunes ten times ten  
May the good Lord bless and keep you  
Till we meet again._


	19. Her Man

She usually didn't have this much trouble concentrating during Lauds. She'd always found peace in the voices of her Sisters joined in harmony, as well as the silence and the meditation. In prayer, her mercurial mind cleared, her path seemed straight and nothing could tempt her away from her devotion to Him.

But tonight, her mind was too full and instead of God, she could only think about the world beyond, and of the man that waited. She sighed, and fought the urge to glance back at the closed chapel doors.

He'd come yesterday, along with a grateful patient, but she'd been at Compline then and unable to enjoy –

Oh, she shouldn't be thinking like this! She closed her eyes and focused on the clear chant of her Sisters' voices. She always had such trouble concentrating during Christmas. Her mind would wander, and she'd think of home and her mother, both long gone now. Much of her childhood hadn't been happy, but Christmas had always been joyful. She closed her eyes, remembering the smell of the trees covered in snow, the choir in church, the celebrations and the sweets afterwards. Her life was so different now, but the joy she felt every Christmas was the same. Even he reminded her of that.

Morning prayers ended and the Sisters rose one by one, their starched habits rustling as they exited the chapel. The others left to attend to their daily duties, but she had no purpose, so she was free to roam. She went straight to the kitchen, where she knew she would find him.

She opened the cupboard, looked in the tin and there was her gingerbread man, smiling at her with a sweet icing grin.

Sister Monica Joan smiled back, and bit his head off. Yes, Christmas was a time of joy.


	20. Snow at Christmas

"That was a lovely dinner, Patrick, thank you," Shelagh said as they left the restaurant. She'd been pleasantly surprised when her fiancé showed up at the boarding house and asked her to dinner, and even more surprised by his choice of restaurant, a discrete little West End café, not too posh, but definitely more elegant than their usual fare.

Here, away from the gossips of Poplar, they could be just another engaged couple, and Shelagh slipped her hand into the crook of Patrick's arm without hesitation, leaning into him for warmth.

Patrick laid his other hand over hers. "I'm only sorry we haven't been able to do more of this. Dinner with a nosy eleven-year-old in attendance is not exactly a romantic evening. You deserve to be courted properly."

Shelagh shook her head. "You're busy with patients, and it wouldn't be fair to Timothy to leave him on his own so often. Besides, I'm always glad for any time I get to spend with you." Her mind drifted briefly toward the births they'd attended together. His presence always seemed to lend her strength, even before she realized she loved him.

"Me too," Patrick said. "But I don't think Timothy would complain very much about a few more fish and chips suppers."

Shelagh laughed. "Perhaps you're right." She smiled up at him, her cheeks rosy with the cold. "Two weeks, Patrick."

Patrick echoed her giddy grin. Two weeks seemed like an age, but then she would be his, and he hers. "Two weeks, my love."

They reached the car and Patrick reluctantly let go of her arm to fiddle with the keys and unlock the door.

"Wait," Shelagh said, placing a hand on his arm.

"What is it?" He couldn't read her face in the dim evening light and for a moment, he thought she'd seen one of the nurses or someone else they knew from Poplar. But then a slow grin blossomed across her face and she turned her gaze to the sky.

"Do you see that? It's snowing."

Patrick glanced up and frowned. "You're right. I should get you home before it gets too bad."

"Patrick, it's snowing! It's the first snow of the year." She giggled, and for a moment, Patrick could see the little girl she might have once been.

"You like the snow?" He personally hated it. It meant more accidents from slips on the ice, and it made driving to births in the middle of the night nearly impossible. He couldn't even imagine how the nuns made it on their bicycles.

"Just the first snow,' she said with a shy shrug. "I have since I was little. I always want snow at Christmas."

Patrick took in the blush on her cheeks, her wide grin and the crystal flakes catching on her hair. She looked like a Christmas angel, and he thought, perhaps snow wasn't so bad. He dropped a kiss on her gloved fingers.

"Snow for every Christmas it is then."


	21. Decorating

Patrick Turner loved Christmas.

This hadn't always been the case. As a young doctor in training, he'd always had to work the holidays. Christmas was spent at The London, setting bones broken on icy front stoops or treating burns from rogue Christmas puddings. Christmas dinner was usually a couple mince pies, brought round by the nurses.

After Timothy was born, Christmas became more joyful. He still had to work most of the season, but he got off enough time to watch Timothy unwrap presents on Christmas Day and share dinner with his family.

The first Christmas after Margaret died was the hardest. He made himself so busy, trying to push past the grief, that he and Timothy never even managed to get a tree. The flat seemed colder without the smell of gingerbread and the trill of carols on the piano. After his late-night calls were done, Patrick sat on the sofa and wrapped presents by himself, missing Margaret so much he almost couldn't breathe.

The one bright spot had been Christmas dinner at Nonnatus. The nuns were so kind to Timothy, particularly Sister Bernadette.

Was that the beginning?

Perhaps it was, for next Christmas came Shelagh and the Christmas after that, Angela, and suddenly the flat was filled with warmth, music and joy again.

This year would be the first Christmas they spent together as a true family. Shelagh and Timothy worked an entire Saturday picking out the tree and strewing decorations around the flat. When Patrick came home to the smell of mince pies and the sound of Timothy practicing "O Holy Night" on the piano, he felt like Christmas had come early this year.

But something was missing, he noticed as he looked around. Well, he'd remedy right away.

"The flat looks wonderful, my love," he told Shelagh as they prepared for bed. "Thank you for all this."

She blushed prettily. "Timothy helped quite a bit. Next year, I don't know how we'll manage. Angela will be walking by then." Patrick followed her gaze to the sleeping child in the cot, and smiled. So many future Christmases to look forward to.

Shelagh turned for their bed, and frowned. "What is that?" she asked, pointing to the sprig of greenery pinned to their headboard.

"Ah, my contribution to the Christmas decorating," Patrick said, wrapping an arm around her waist. "You seemed to have forgotten it."

Shelagh laughed aloud, and her blush deepened.

"I didn't forget it. I was just waiting," she said, pulling another sprig of mistletoe out of the pocket of her robe and twirling it in her fingers. "Merry Christmas, Patrick."

"Merry Christmas, Shelagh."


	22. The Tree

Shelagh surveyed the flat once more with a critical eye and then smiled. It had taken some doing to decorate for Christmas this year. Both she and Patrick were so busy at the maternity home, and Timothy with school – and then there was the holiday concert the reverend had asked her to organize – that it had been hard to find a free Saturday to prepare their home for the holidays.

She'd needed the help of both her men this year, since two-year-old Angela was now walking and very curious about anything shiny within her reach. It had taken a little persuading on her part to get them to give up their lazy Saturday morning, but once she put Bing Crosby on the record player and the decorating began, they pitched in with enthusiasm. Now a new wreath hung on the door, garlands stretched over the mantle, punctuated by a few early Christmas cards, and the tree stood in a corner, fully decorated with lights winking.

The tree. That was one decoration she still couldn't look at without cringing slightly. She and Patrick had purchased it the year before in deference to Timothy, who insisted aluminum trees were all the rage in America.

Bright silver, it stood in their living room for the 12 days of Christmas and then was packed away with the rest of the ornaments in a back closet. She forgot about it, until she had to retrieve their summer clothes or pack away some of Angela's smaller baby things – and then there it was, winking at her from the corner.

She looked at it again and sighed. Tim loved it, and that was what mattered. Maybe it would look better with new ornaments. Most of the ones they had were glass, some old and so fragile; they fit better with a traditional tree, like the kind she'd grown up with. Before her mother had passed, she remembered going with her parents to pick out a tree every Christmas.

"You find the tree, Shelagh," her dad would say, and whichever one she picked, that would be the one that came home with them – tall or small, scraggly or full. It was always the right tree. Once it was decorated, she'd lay under it for hours, surrounded by the scent of pine and the sparkling ornaments, and feel so happy and at peace.

This tree didn't smell like anything, but it was certainly sparkly enough.

Patrick came out from the hall, carrying a drowsy Angela. "Look who's up from her nap. Do you see the tree, Angela?"

The toddler glanced up from her father's shoulder, and her brown eyes got as wide as saucers.

"See the tree?" Shelagh prompted again.

Angela grinned, revealing three baby teeth. "Tree? Tree!" she squealed and stretched her hands towards it.

Perhaps it was the right tree after all.


	23. One Tiny Snowflake

"Mummy, mummy, guess what?"

"Angela, we've talked about this: No running the house," Shelagh chided gently.

Her daughter came to a halt at the doorway to the kitchen. "But I've stopped now." She rocked back on her heels and grinned. "Guess what?"

Shelagh put aside the laundry and focused her attention on Angela. "What?"

"I'm going to be a snowflake in the Christmas play!" she said proudly. "I get to sing and everything."

"That's wonderful, darling. Well done." Shelagh beamed. "We'll all have to come and see your stage debut."

Angela giggled. "You'll even make Tim come?"

"We'll find a way to convince him," Shelagh said, with a wink. "And I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Then disaster struck.

At first, Shelagh dismissed her cough and runny nose as a result of the cold weather. She was tired too, but she'd worked several late shifts at the maternity home recently, on top of preparing for Christmas. She was worn out, that was all. But the morning of the pantomime, she woke up an hour late, her head so clogged and achy she felt like she was moving through smog. Patrick took one look at her and prescribed bed rest until she was well.

"I feel awful." Shelagh sighed, lying back on the propped-up pillows. "It's Angela's first time in the Christmas pantomime and I'm going to miss it."

"It's not your fault you've got the flu," Timothy said, bringing her a cup of tea. "Anyway, Dad missed loads of my recitals and stuff and I still turned out fine."

Patrick just rolled his eyes.

"But you missed him then." Shelagh looked at the clock. "The pantomime isn't until 7 p.m. Maybe with a bit of rest –"

"Shelagh, you have a fever," Patrick said. "I'm sorry, my love, but you're not going anywhere today."

Her head throbbed and her eyes felt heavy with tiredness and tears. "Perhaps you're right."

Shelagh spent most of the day napping or drinking the tea left at her bedside at intervals by a worried Timothy. She hoped Angela wouldn't be too disappointed; she'd talked about nothing but the pantomime for weeks. Why did she have to be ill at Christmas?

Angela came in with Patrick, just before they left for the church. Shelagh sat up in bed, and gave her daughter a tired smile.

"Look at you," she said, as Angela twirled around in her white dress. "You look just like a snowflake. I'm sorry I have to miss it, dearest."

"That's all right. I hope you feel better, Mummy." She gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Patrick did as well. "Rest. I'll tell you all about it."

Shelagh heard the door click behind them, and the flat went quiet. She closed her eyes and tried not to let her melancholy get the better of her. There would be many other Christmases.

She woke a few hours later, still tired, but her head felt clear enough to venture to the kitchen for something to eat. She'd just made tea and put bread in the toaster when the front door opened, letting in a gust of cold air, and one tiny snowflake.

"Mummy!"

"Angela, remember we said about being quiet? Your mother's resting – oh. Shelagh." Patrick came in, followed by Tim, both of them wearing concerned frowns.

"Why aren't you in bed?" Patrick asked.

"I just came out for a cup of tea and something to eat."

"Are you feeling better?" Angela asked.

"A little. How was pantomime?"

"Wonderful," Angela said, drawing out the word. "Can I sing you my song now? Tim said he'd play the piano and I could sing and then it would be like you were there."

Shelagh gave Tim a grateful smile. "Only if you're not too tired," Patrick said sternly.

"Too tired for a private concert performance by Miss Angela Turner?" Shelagh shook her head and went to take her front-row seat on the sofa. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."


	24. New Year's Eve

Shelagh Turner would always remember New Years' Eve 1960 as bitterly cold, but full of light.

The snow piled high as the mercury dropped, and the homeless sought what shelter they could find. Only a few patrolling policemen walked the streets, balaclavas under their helmets and flasks of tea stored in their pockets. On any other winter night like this, the houses would be dark and the streets empty.

But tonight, the windows of London glowed in the dawn of a new year. The clock had struck midnight only a few minutes earlier, and it seemed the whole world was awake to hear it.

The door to the dance hall opened, letting out a sliver of golden light and the brassy sound of jazz music. A couple followed shortly after, leaning into each other against the harsh cold wind.

Shelagh threaded her arm through her husband's and brought her other hand to her mouth as she stifled a yawn.

"Sorry, Patrick. I'm afraid the late nights with Angela are catching up with me." She leaned closer to him. "But the dinner dance was lovely. I had a wonderful time. I'm glad we came."

He squeezed the gloved hand that rested on his elbow and smiled at his wife. "I'm glad you changed your mind and let me take you out." Patrick tugged her closer. His arm wrapped around her waist, where under her thick winter coat, she wore a dress the color of the sky after it snows. "And you _are_ wonderful."

The pink in her cheeks deepened in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. She tilted her head up to kiss him, losing herself to the sensation of his chilled skin and warm breath. The wind switched direction, blowing a flurry of snow at their backs. Shelagh shivered and reluctantly drew back from her husband's embrace.

"But let's go home now, Patrick. It's freezing out."

He nodded. Together they hurried through the snow to the car, which was parked across the street from the hall. He held the door for his wife, then climbed in the driver's side to start the car and turn on the heater.

Shelagh held her hands toward the heating vents in the dash. "I can't remember a winter this cold."

"I can." He grasped her hands in his, partly to warm them and partly out of the selfish desire to be nearer to her. "Do you remember New Year's Eve, 1957? The Henderson baby?"

Shelagh thought for a moment, then her eyes lit up in recognition. "Yes! Didn't she go into labor in the middle of a New Year's Eve party?"

"Yes, and it was still going on downstairs when she delivered her baby girl." Patrick chuckled. "Mr. Henderson gave me half a bottle of Baby Cham on my way out." He wrinkled his nose. "Awful stuff. I passed it on to my secretary."

Shelagh giggled. "Really? He gave me the better part of a bottle of whiskey. The sisters quite enjoyed it." Her laugh deepened at the open-mouthed look of shock on her husband's face. "Even Sister Julienne is fond of a small toast at the beginning of a new year."

Patrick laughed as he put the car in drive. "Now I know what to bring for Christmas next year."

He drove at a crawl toward their home, always careful of icy patches and places with heavy snow. Luckily, the streets were empty, as many were still inside celebrating.

"Do you suppose Timothy is still awake?" Shelagh asked. They had left both son and daughter at Nonnatus that night, under the care of many doting midwives.

"He'd better not be," Patrick replied gruffly. "He was given strict instructions to be in bed by ten. And if I remember correctly, Sister Evangelina said she was on call tonight. He's not likely to get much past her."

Shelagh let out a laugh that turned into another yawn. "Indeed. He's probably reading a comic under the covers."

"Or the Lancet. They keep disappearing from my office."

"He's a bright boy, Patrick." She squeezed his knee. "He wants to be like you. And after last New Year's…." she trailed off, remembering her boy's pale face on the hospital pillow. The polio had struck on Christmas and by New Year's, Timothy could breathe on his own. But his body had still been too tired and weak to move far from his hospital bed.

Patrick covered her hand with his own. "I know. But he'll have many other New Year's, thanks to modern medicine, and I'm grateful every day for that."

Shelagh nodded and closed her eyes in a brief prayer of thanks. Tim and Angela would have many, many Happy New Years, she hoped.

Patrick pulled the car to a stop in front of their home. Together, they walked arm in arm up the steps and into their modest flat. Inside was dark and peculiarly serene. "It's so quiet," Shelagh said in a whisper as Patrick eased off his coat and turned on the lamp on the sideboard.

"Without the children, you mean?" He helped her off with her coat, his hands lingering on her waist. "I suppose we should make the most of it. Get a good night's sleep."

"Yes," Shelagh said, though, now, she didn't feel much like resting. The fatigue she'd felt as they left the hall had disappeared, and she felt only a need to be warm and close to her husband. She turned but did not lean in to kiss him or touch him. They stood millimeters apart, breathing the same air, looking at each other, drawing out the moment. Shelagh felt both impatient and perfectly content.

"1960." Patrick said, his voice low. "Who thought we'd be here?"

Shelagh nodded. "I know. A new decade." A start, she thought, recalling another start, another time when she'd stood in front of him like this. Then she'd been impatient, but shy too, and had waited for Patrick to take the lead.

But now she didn't have to.

Shelagh stepped away and crossed the hall to the bedroom. After a moment, Patrick followed. She turned on one of the bedside lamps, stepped out of her heels and slipped off her earrings.

Then, knowing her husband was watching her, she took out the clasp that held back her hair.

"Shelagh," he breathed, and that was all the encouragement she needed. She stepped into his waiting arms and raised herself on her tiptoes to kiss him. The kiss started out light and slow, just a brush of his lips against hers. But the stillness of the house was too tempting. They were completely, absolutely alone, and Shelagh intended to make the most of it.

She reached for Patrick's collar to tug him closer. He obliged, his hands traveling from the nape of her neck down her back to pull her flush against him. They kissed in the dim light until they were both gasping for breath. Shelagh drew away but kept her arms wrapped around her husband.

"What was that for?" Patrick asked. His dark eyes glittered with longing – and some surprise, she thought.

She swallowed a bubble of laughter. "Just saying Happy New Year, again."

His crooked grin widened as he leaned in for another kiss. "Well, you can say that as many times tonight as you like."


	25. Mrs Smith (GIANT Series 6 spoilers)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic contains giant spoilers for Series 6. If you don't want to be spoiled, stop reading now.**

 **Okay?**

 **You've been warned.**

"How's the patient?" Patrick asked in a low voice.

Shelagh paused in her perusal of the new patient files. "Mrs. Smith?"

After an astonishing appointment with Dr. Horringer last week, they'd decided to keep the news of their unexpected pregnancy to themselves, for now; Shelagh was only a few weeks along and they both still felt a bit stunned. But they'd developed a kind of code for talking about their happy secret in public. Shelagh wasn't sure how effective their system was. Patrick grinned like an idiot every time "Mrs. Smith" was mentioned. She swallowed her own grin now as she answered.

"Better than she was this morning." She glanced at Sister Ursula's retreating back and pursed her lips in annoyance. "Patrick, do you think Sister Ursula suspects?"

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Did she say anything to you?"

"No," Shelagh said, thumbing the edge of the appointment book. "Only a stern reminder about emphasizing good nutrition to mothers, especially when eating for two. No more biscuits at clinic, unless you've keeled over."

Patrick let out a snort of laughter. "I was going to offer to pick up fish and chips for dinner, in case y– Mrs. Smith – felt too tired to cook. But I don't think Sister Ursula would approve."

"Fish?" Shelagh felt the bile rise in her throat. She hastily popped another Rennie in her mouth. "Oh Patrick, don't even mention that."


	26. Brandy

She noticed her symptoms during the final Psalm. A hitch and then a sudden crack in the mirror-smoothness of her voice. Sister Julienne noticed too, and glanced her way in concern. Sister Bernadette swallowed back the urge to cough and finished singing the prayer.

"Sister, are you all right?" the elder nun asked her when Compline had finished and the other nuns had drifted upstairs to bed.

Sister Bernadette nodded. "Fine, Sister." She cleared her throat but the persistent itch remained. "The weather has been quite dry recently. I'll just have a gargle before bed."

Sister Julienne gave her a warm smile and left her, blessedly, on her own.

Sister Bernadette went to the kitchen and switched on the light. Mrs. B kept a bottle of brandy on the top shelf for baking and special occasions, she remembered. She climbed on a chair to search through the high cabinets, muffling her cough with one hand.

A small amount of brandy, mixed with honey and lemon, had been her late mother's remedy for a sore throat. Smoking had been her father's. She'd tried cigarettes a few times in her youth, and once, last week, when the doctor had offered her one after a difficult birth. Smoking never helped her throat, but it soothed other cravings, ones she dared not speak of.

She found the brandy bottle behind the Christmas cake tin. There was no lemon or honey to be found, but gargling with the alcohol would at least numb her throat.

Sister Bernadette climbed down and poured an inch of the golden liquid into a glass. Standing over the sink, she tilted her head back and gargled. The brandy eased her irritation almost immediately.

"Hello – Sister?"

The voice behind her made her jump and she choked. She swallowed the remaining brandy, coughing as it burned down her throat and made her eyes to water.

"Oh, Sister, I'm sorry." Doctor Turner appeared at her side, his face creased in worry. "I didn't mean to startle you. Here-" He took the empty glass, filled it with water from the tap and pressed it into her hand. She took small careful sips.

"Are you all right?" the doctor asked, once her coughing had subsided.

"Y-yes." She cleared her throat and took another sip of water. "Only a slight tickle in the back of my throat. Old home remedy." She nodded toward the brandy bottle. "I wasn't meant to swallow it."

The doctor chuckled. "I've heard patients swear by hot toddies for colds. I don't think a few tablespoons is going to do you any harm."

Sister Bernadette returned his wide grin, the glint of humor in his eyes causing a flutter in her, much lower than her throat. She took off her glasses to clean them, and his face became a safe blur. "Was there something you needed?"

He held up a bag of surgical instruments. "I came to use your autoclave. The one at the surgery has broken again. Sorry for the late hour. Timothy had questions for a school project. Something about the life span of butterflies. I don't know how much help I was." He shook his head, always self-deprecating when it came to fatherhood.

She replaced her glasses and allowed herself a small smile at the mention of his curious son. "Quite all right. Leave your instruments with me, I'll see that they are cleaned first thing."

"Thank you, Sister." He gave her the bag, and his head tilted in concern. "Take care of that throat. You're certain it's not a cold? You look a little flushed."

She felt her face grow even hotter. "Quite certain. It's probably the brandy. Goodnight Doctor."


	27. 100-word moments

_Author's note: A collection of 100 micro-fics, first posted on Tumblr a long, long time ago._

 **Father & Son**

"We're going out for breakfast," Patrick said the morning before the wedding.

Tim frowned. "Why?"

"I thought we could have a day together before Shelagh moves in. Just us two."

Shelagh would have deemed the full English they gorged on too greasy. She would have rolled her eyes at the hour spent at the barbers discussing cricket. And she definitely wouldn't have enjoyed the violent Western at the cinema.

"I won't tell if you won't," his dad said over fish and chips later. Shelagh's cooking was better, but some things were tradition, just between father and son.

Tim grinned. "Deal."

 **Cake**

"I don't think I've ever been this nervous over a cake," Mrs. B said.

Patsy wiped her hands on her apron. "Trixie would choose something complicated." She was "helping" with the chocolate chiffon cake, though that mostly involved not moving too quickly and lots of prayer.

The older woman tapped a floury finger on her chin. "Mrs. Noakes had coconut. Mrs. Turner, an almond sponge. Each time you pray it doesn't fall."

"Trixie said something similar about walking down the aisle."

"You laugh, but you may be next."

Patsy chuckled a little louder than was necessary. "I think I'm safe.

 **Lucky Day**

Tim found the newspaper clipping while they were cleaning Dad's study. The photograph was grainy, but the people were unmistakable. There was Dad, standing outside a van beside two nuns, one large and rotund, and the other small and bespectacled.

"We're lucky," Dad had said that day, as though he'd brought the circus to Poplar rather than TB screenings. "Countless lives will be saved by this, Tim."

One life, in particular, Tim was especially grateful for.

"Mum looks so different," Angie said. "Did she know she was ill?"

Tim wiped dust from his eye. "No. It was a lucky day."

 **Jane**

The other nurses at the boarding house teased Jane about the letters, until they found out what was in them.

"You play chess by post?" Nancy wrinkled her button nose. "With a curate?"

"He's…" Jane glanced down at the letter in her hands, unable to think of just one word to describe the Reverend Appleby-Thornton – James, now.

"Kind," she settled on. Few people were kind like he was.

Nancy rolled her eyes and didn't bother her after that, but Jane didn't mind. She liked having a good secret for once, rather than something she had to hide.

 **Mistletoe**

"Happy Christmas, love." Patrick picked the fragrant greenery off the counter and twirled it over his wife's head, leaning in for a kiss. She laughed and moved away.

"Nice try, but that's rosemary for the potatoes, not mistletoe."

He sniffed the plant's piney scent. "What's the difference?"

"I should hope you know," Shelagh scoffed. "Mistletoe's poisonous."

"Well, I'll make sure not to eat mistletoe," He twirled the herb above her head again. "Does that mean I can't kiss you under the rosemary?"

Shelagh's face pinked and she stretched up on her toes. "I suppose we could start a new tradition."

 **Jenny**

She hadn't thought of Alec in years. But when she entered the music shop and heard Debbie Reynolds and Gene Kelly trilling "Good Morning," she placed a hand over her heart and was lost.

Blame memories or the pregnancy hormones, but she had to buy the record.

"Is this new?" Phillip asked as they listened that evening, her feet in his lap.

There would always be "what ifs." Without them, she wouldn't have the man she smiled at now, or the child they were waiting to meet. She sighed as his hands reached a sensitive spot. "An old favorite."

 **Birds & Bees**

"I do believe I was just given the birds and bees chat by a nun," Chummy whispered as the nurses left the kitchen and headed down the damp corridor toward their rooms.

Jenny giggled. "Be glad it was Sister Bernadette, not Sister Evangelina."

"Outside the realms of 'gentlemanly behavior.' Gosh, what do you suppose she meant by that?"

"You're a midwife, Chummy," Trixie said. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Chummy flushed to her hairline. "Trixie! From Sister Bernadette?"

"I'm not saying she has personal experience," Trixie arched an eyebrow. "But she wasn't born a nun."

 **Kiss**

"Daddy, why do you always kiss Mummy's hand?"

Shelagh blushed and Patrick chuckled nervously. Angela had been asking embarrassing questions lately. Tim normally found it hilarious, but now he groaned.

"Because grown-ups like to be mushy."

"Because –" Patrick looked at Tim sternly " – I love your mum, and I want her to know."

"Why don't you just say I love you?"

"Well, I do, but sometimes you can't say it, so…" He looked to Shelagh for help.

Tim rescued him. "Because we're around, Ange. Don't encourage them."

Patrick grinned and lifted Shelagh's hand to his lips.

Tim sighed. "Parents."


	28. 100-word moments: Cake

Another letter. Nurse Peters sighed. The poor man should stop writing and save himself postage. The young nun in her care never read them, no matter how she teased.

She passed the letter off without comment this time, and waited for Sister Bernadette to slip it into her robe with all the others.

But instead, she opened it.

Nurse Peters held her breath. "Would you like some cake? It's almond sponge today."

The woman's eyes shone. "Yes, please."

When Nurse Peters passed by later, she was pleased to find the plate empty and the nun's lap full of opened letters.

* * *

It was a shock seeing her again, after their disastrous cricket outing. Tom felt his face grow hot with embarrassment.

"Hello, Reverend," she said coolly. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I thought the sisters might enjoy these," He held out the cake box with a shaky hand. "A gift from a generous parishioner."

"If it's cake, I'm sure they will." She opened the box and gasped in delight. "Meringues! My favorite."

"R-really?" His head felt so light, he might float away.

"Would you like to come in for tea?"

He'd dream about her smile for weeks afterwards.

* * *

She thought she was fine, but then the strangest things would remind her of that last day. Like the cake at lunch. Bright yellow, like the sunshine on a plate. The sun through the curtains of their flat. They had no baking skills between them, but she found a good lemon drizzle at the shop. The crumbs got everywhere - stuck to her palms, her lips, the soft backs of her thighs. For once, she did not mind.

"Patsy, don't you want your cake?" Barbara asked.

She pushed aside the plate. "It's a bit too sweet for me."

* * *

"Our special biscuits," he called them, because no one else liked them. Not Jimmy, not Cynthia, not even Sister Monica Joan, who usually pounced on anything sweet. The name was not exactly appealing - squashed fly biscuits - but to her, they tasted of childhood, and that was something she hadn't been able to share with Gerald. He'd been so much older, she hadn't really shared anything with him. And while all she'd shared with Alec so far was tea, biscuits and a brief spin on a motorbike, she sensed that maybe one day, there would be more.

* * *

"Oh bother."

Sister Bernadette, walking past the kitchen, heard the distress of her tall friend and popped her head in.

"What seems to be the trouble, Nurse Noakes?"

"Tomorrow is young Timothy Turner's birthday and I told Dr. Turner I'd organize a Cubs outing as a party. But Ms. B's on holiday, and my attempts at a cake have been - " she sighed "less than successful."

Sister Bernadette frowned. She remembered several birthdays with no cake at all after her mother died. That wouldn't do.

"If a cake is all you need, I'd be glad to help."

* * *

"Mummy, I help."

Shelagh sighed. She'd wanted to finish this Christmas cake before Timothy raided the larder after school, and the help of a three-year-old would only result in a larger mess.

But Angela's brown eyes were pleading, and it was Christmas. "Well, all right." She lifted her onto the stool and guided her as they mixed and measured. Angela got flour in her hair, ate a good portion of the icing, and cried after she stuck a sultana up her nose.

The resulting cake was lumpier than usual, but no one said a word, except Angela – "I made it!"

* * *

She hadn't expected cake.

"Cake is for guests, Antonia," her mother would always say, slapping her hand away from the tea tray. And she wasn't here as a guest. She was here to devote her life to His service and to the community.

But when the elder nun pushed the snowy white confection and a cup of tea toward her, asking "Aren't you hungry? You've had such a long journey," she couldn't resist. It tasted like cream, spun sugar and summer days.

Cake could welcome guests, but it could also welcome you home.


	29. 100-word moments: Kiss

Days at St. Anne's crept by so slowly, Sister Bernadette often wondered if any time were passing at all. Her only priority was rest, so she had plenty of time to dream of other places she would rather be. The serene hour of Compline would have been preferable to the sleepless nights in the sanatorium bed. She would have exchanged a dozen awkward conversations with Nurse Peters for one luncheon with the younger midwives. But she thought most of sunlight streaming through a kitchen window, the smell of tobacco and antiseptic, and his lips, warm and feather-light on her palm.

* * *

Her hand was damp and cold – that was his first thought. And small. And though he had offered help in the guise of medical professionalism, now, he realized how long he had been waiting just to hold her hand. It was only after he'd kissed her that he remembered she was not his to love. He would never hold her hand again; the chasm between them was too wide. He apologized, and let her go.

* * *

Timothy Turner would never forget his first kiss. Neither would his classmates, since it happened during a school concert.

He'd been assigned a duet with Susan Donoghue, who never came to practices. Tim was prepared for a solo when she appeared, fanned out her red-gold hair and sat next to him on the piano bench.

"I'm ready. Catch up if you can."

She played allegro instead of adagio, but by the end, they were playing in near harmony.

"Not bad," she said, kissing him, quick but soft.

Tim barely heard her next words: "Even if you were two beats behind."

* * *

Jane traced her finger around the edge of the goldfish bowl and frowned. Poor fish with no name. She had no name to give it. She'd fallen right into Trixie's teasing about first kisses, when she could have easily lied, and given the goldfish any name, like Tom or George. No one would have been the wiser. Instead, she'd made herself stand out again, when all she wanted was to hide and be normal.

A knock on the door and Sister Bernadette looked in. "Jane? We have a guest for tea, a Reverend Appleby-Thornton. Would you like to join us?"

* * *

"Patrick? What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Just checking the door is unlocked for Angela."

"She has a key, dear." Shelagh suppressed a sigh. Patrick hadn't stopped pacing or checking his watch since Angela and her date had left for the pictures.

"You're certain? They've been out on the steps awhile." His hand twitched toward the curtain.

"Patrick Turner, step away from that window." Shelagh took her husband's arm and steered him back to the sitting room.

"Shelagh, I'm just-"

"You're just her father, dearest. And every girl should be able to have her first kiss without her father spying."


	30. Christmas, 1963

_A fluffy fic for the annual Nonnatun Christmas card exchange. My card recipients listed Valerie, Shelagh, Trixie, Patrick and Sister Monica Joan as their favorite characters, so I wrote a fic with all of them. Merry Christmas!_

Today was Christmas, 1963, and as usual, Patrick Turner was running late.

"The one year I'm able to find you a locum, and we're still 45 minutes late to Christmas dinner, Patrick," Shelagh said as her husband pulled the MG to a stop in front of Nonnatus House.

Patrick cringed. "I'm sorry, Shelagh. Dr. Scott had a lot of questions about Mr. Latimer's ulcer treatments. He's so young." He shook his head. "And after our fiasco with Dr. Godfrey, I didn't want to take any chances."

Shelagh gave him a sympathetic smile. She shared her husband's dedication to the job, even if he did need reminders to relax now and again. "Well, I'm sure we won't miss Christmas pudding."

"I can't wait this year. I'm starving," Tim moaned.

Patrick peered out the frosted windscreen at the cloudy grey sky. "Let's get inside before the snow starts again."

They picked their way up the icy convent steps, Patrick carrying Teddy, Shelagh leading Angela by the hand and Timothy bringing up the rear.

Shelagh rang the bell and waited. No one answered. She tried again, and then a third time, and still no one came to the door. Snow began to fall.

"I'm cold," Angela said in a small voice, burying her head in her mother's coat.

Patrick shifted Teddy in his arms. "Should we go inside?"

"Everyone is likely already at the table and can't hear us." Shelagh pushed open the door. "Hello?"

The hall was dark, quiet and empty. No clatter of dishes, no sounds of merry laughter, no popping of Christmas crackers. More disappointing, Patrick noticed, was the familiar smell of mildew and incense, with no a hint of roast chicken or rich plum pudding.

"I don't smell dinner," Timothy grumbled.

"Perhaps we got the time wrong. I'm sure Mrs. B will have everything in hand," Shelagh said, leading the way toward the kitchen.

But instead of Mrs. B's usual tidy abode, Shelagh found a disaster area. Dirty dishes piled high in the sink, remnants of potato peelings and Brussel sprouts littered the table and a faint smell of burned toast hung in the air.

Valerie Dyer, floured apron around her waist, stood over the cooker. Her frown dissolved into a relieved smile when she saw the Turners.

"Oh, Mrs. Turner. You're here!"

"Hello Nurse Dyer. Where is everyone?"

Valerie sighed and wiped her hands on her apron. "Twin birth at Lisbon buildings, breech over on Garden Street, Trixie's flight from Italy is late returning and Mrs. B has the flu. So, the task of preparing Christmas dinner fell to me. And Sister Monica Joan, but I don't know where she is." Valerie's eyes widened. "Do you smell something burning?" She rushed back to the oven. "Oh no, not the potatoes!"

Shelagh pursed her lips. This would not do.

"Well, you're not preparing it alone anymore." She removed her coat and draped it over the one clean chair in the room. "Timothy, take an apron and roll up your sleeves. I'm sure we can salvage the potatoes by scraping off the burned bits."

Tim smirked. "I knew that Scouts cookery badge would come in handy."

Patrick knew better than to get in the way when his wife was on a mission. He set his youngest son, dozing, on a blanket in the parlor. "I'll go see if I can find Sister Monica Joan."

"Yes," Shelagh agreed as she set about cleaning the kitchen. "Take Angela with you."

Patrick led his daughter back to the hall, pausing at the door to make sure her scarf was wrapped properly. "Shall we go on a scavenger hunt?"

She nodded eagerly. "What are we looking for?"

"Sister Monica Joan. She's hiding. Let's find her."

They didn't have to search far. Angela spotted the sister right away, sitting on a bench in the garden, wrapped in a coat and scarf to keep out the chill.

"Sister come inside. It's freezing," Patrick implored her.

The elder nun set her jaw and shook her head. "I have been charged with waiting. Much like this garden waits for spring, and all its bright colors."

Patrick looked out on the frozen muddy plots, all greys and browns. "You'll be waiting a long time, Sister. Spring isn't for months yet."

Sister Monica Joan scoffed. "I am not waiting for flowers to bloom. They are wise to keep themselves hidden in the earth while it is so intemperate outside." She waved her hand dismissively at the falling snow. "Nurse Franklin has yet to return. If she comes to find no one at home to receive her and no cake, she may think we have deserted her. On Christmas." Her voice cracked with worried tears.

Oh dear, Patrick thought. Shelagh would handle this so much better. He sat beside the nun. "I'm sure she wouldn't think that, sister. She knows how busy everyone is, even on Christmas."

The nun shook her head. "There is no cake, no colorful blooms, no joyous celebrations. Only these tangled forest vines." She lifted a handful of mistletoe off the pile beside her on the bench. "Fred has been gathering and storing it in our garden shed. I know not why, as it is poisonous and liable to cause ill to anyone who encounters it."

Patrick reached to take the plant from the elderly nun and reassure her, but the sound of a motor interrupted him.

A black cab pulled to a stop outside Nonnatus House. Out of it stepped Trixie Franklin, looking like a Christmas poinsettia in her bright red traveling cloak and fur-trimmed hat.

"Nurse Franklin has returned to us!" Sister Monica Joan sprung from the bench and took Angela by the hand. Together, they skipped to greet the young nurse. Patrick struggled to catch up, careful not to slip on the icy ground.

"I didn't expect such a welcoming committee," Trixie said, embracing Sister Monica Joan and waving to Angela. "Especially in this the snow."

"We were looking for sister," Angela said.

"And you've found her," Trixie said, smiling. "Just in time for Christmas."

Patrick shoved the mistletoe in his coat pocket to help the cab driver carry Trixie's three suitcases into the hall. Trixie took hands with Angela and Sister Monica Joan and followed him inside the convent.

"I'm afraid there's not much of a Christmas feast yet," Patrick said, setting down the last suitcase. "But we've got all hands to the pump."

In a space of 15 minutes, Shelagh had cleared the counters and tabletops of scraps and dirty dishes. Timothy scrubbed pots and pans at the sink, while Shelagh kneaded soda bread at the table.

"We found her!" Angela crowed as they entered the kitchen.

Valerie, stirring a pan on the cooker, grinned wide. "Trixie! You're back just in time! I'd hug you, but I'm under strict instructions not to let this gravy burn."

The blonde nurse frowned. "Where's Sister Julienne? And Mrs. B? And everyone else?"

"Called out or ill," Tim said, dunking another dish into the soapy water. "So, we're making Christmas dinner. We can use all the help we can get."

Shelagh put the soda bread in a pan to rest and sighed. "I'm afraid there's no Christmas pudding. There won't be time."

Trixie's face lit up. "One moment." She hurried back down the hall to her suitcases and returned with a silver cake tin.

"I brought this from Italy. I think they will be quite suitable." Trixie handed the tin to Sister Monica Joan.

The nun prized off the lid with expert fingers to reveal a golden, fruit-studded cake. Her childlike grin widened. "This will be most pleasing."

"And it looks like Dr. Turner found the mistletoe," Valerie quipped.

Patrick frowned, then remembered the greenery he carried with him. He grinned and tried to push it deeper into his coat pocket, but the leaves sprung back, a bright badge of his intentions.

Tim shook his head. "How do you manage to find mistletoe every Christmas, Dad?"

"Lucky, I guess," he said, grinning. Shelagh caught his eye and blushed, and his grin turned into laughter.

"I think it's sweet," Valerie said.

Tim rolled his eyes. "Don't encourage them."


End file.
